Purified by Cold-Fire
by Tilthanial
Summary: Still recovering from the disastrous mission to Kairn, Sergeant Kane is brought on trial for the murder of two Sisters of Battle. Haunted by everything he has lost in service to the Inquisition and facing a hostile tribunal, does he even want to be saved? And why are they asking about a mission that took place five years ago?
1. Cadia - Forty Eight Hours or Minutes?

**Author's Notes:**

***This story is going to contain a fair bit of experimentation for veterans of Kane's story. The story will not be told solely through his first-person narrative, and there will be lots of flashbacks. To make it clear, each chapter title will note which timeline is being presented (i.e. ****_Hinterlight_**** - Cold Welcome).**

***This will also be one of the first stories I have written that is going to focus on the non-action side of things, so I apologize in advance if it takes me a long time to knock these chapters out and they are stilted. Anyone who wants to beta-read, please PM me or leave a review. I would greatly appreciate some advice in writing this.**

***Finally, future AN's will be posted at the bottom of chapters instead of the top. I will try to respond to any/all reviews through that. I hope you enjoy the story.**

* * *

**Cadia, Southern Hemisphere**

I checked my powerpack one final time. It took an extreme force of will to not let my anxiety show. The young men surrounding me in the Chimera's troop compartment were looking amongst each other with the distinct aura of men terrified. I could not bring himself to blame them. They were Whiteshields, and this was their first true battle. Yes they were Cadians. Yes they had grown up with war as a reality. Yes, they had passed their training with flying colors. But they were mortal men and they were now flying into the face of a terrible foe that wanted nothing more than to destroy them, both physically and spiritually. If they were not terrified than they were already dead.

The battle was already raging. I felt the raucous vibrations of the artillery explosions bleed through the thrum of the Chimera engines and the grinding of the treads. The Traitor Legion had already begun its pre-assault barrage. No one knew how long it would last, perhaps a day or perhaps a few minutes. One could never tell. Personally I hoped it would end soon, even though the attack would follow soon after. Better to have a target to shoot at then spend our time waiting for death to take us from above. I sat back against the hull and closed my eyes. It was a good thing the Whites could not see my face. My lips were moving in one of the many prayers from the Uplifting Primer, but my mind was elsewhere.

The Cadian frontlines. It had been years since the spawn of Chaos had landed a sizable enough force to establish a beachhead and mount a ground offensive. Two months ago a fleet of six cruiser-sized transport ships and several strike cruisers blasted through the naval blockade and crash landed on the barren southern plains. The rest of their fleet had been turned to scrap in orbit, but those seven ships had landed an estimated four hundred thousand soldiers. Within a month they had overrun three Kasrs and annihilated a full-strength Interior Guard army. If the Sector Command hadn't already been scrambling to organize a swift counter-offensive then the destruction of the Guard army would have caused quite a panic. Instead it hastened the assembly of the three reprisal armies and led to the premature graduation of 1000 Whiteshield companies. We were one of those thousand, and we were the first one sent into combat.

This training company had been halfway through its live-fire cycle when the mustering occurred, so their combat prep was rushed and the company shipped out without so much as a single round of basic marksmanship testing. The heavy weapons crews had been randomly assigned and given the most basic of introductions to their platforms while on the way to the staging fields. These Whiteshields were not fully trained, nor were they ready for the chaos of the battlefield. It didn't help their morale that we had only been issued two days worth of rations. The message had been clear:

We weren't expected to live past two days.

Cadian battlefields were unforgiving meat grinders. The Cadians would rather die than surrender a single meter of ground, and the Enemy was fearless and single-minded in its hatred of our kind. These were battles where you fought until your weapon was empty and broken, your knife was stuck in someone's ribs, your shovel had snapped in half and your body was shattered in a hundred places. Units were not decimated on Cadian battlefields, they were wiped out to a man. It was warfare at its bloodiest and most pure.

Neither the lieutenant nor I had a clue as to why they had sent us in. There were plenty of better trained and equipped units that could have been ordered up and stood a real chance of surviving. Hell, there were more expendable units available too. It didn't make sense. Then again, as a lowly company sergeant I had no business understanding the grand plan. All I had to understand was the paper-sheaf with our orders on it. Go out and kill yourself to slow down the Enemy. That was what the Emperor wanted.

Our destination was a salient in the Imperial lines. Some diehards from the 94th Cadian Shock troops and a contingent of the 248th Cadian Siege Company Interior Guard refused to surrender ground even as their comrades retreated under orders towards Line Red. Their break from the order of battle must have caused a stir, but if the Lord General understood anything it was the passion with which Cadians held the line. So, instead of abandoning them for deserting their command, he adapted the plan to use them as a speed bump in the Enemy's advance. But they weren't going to last long enough for the job, so the 675/w9 was about to see the beginning and end of its glorious incarnation. Two days was a bit optimistic. Once the ground attack started they wouldn't last more than a couple hours. Intelligence had done a good job keeping everyone in the dark, but before we moved out I stole a minute with a unit of Mordians and confirmed the rumors.

There were Traitor Astartes legions out there. It was to be expected, there were always Chaos-fouled Space Marines coming out of the Eye of Terror. A single squad of the fiends would tear through our company without so much as pausing to piss on our corpses. There were worse ways to die. As long as we died fulfilling our duty…

It was our job to reinforce their line long enough for the counter-offensive to finish organizing. I knew very little about the grand campaign we were fighting; the one thing the Intelligence goons had confirmed for us was that it would be overwhelming and pack more righteous fury than the Terran sun. There were contingents from at least four Loyalist Astartes chapters present in the army. Four. Probably full companies, and that was a hell-scary amount of firepower. Why hadn't they sent one of them out to hold the line? They could have done it much better than us, and even stonewalled the Enemy's advance. From my perspective, I'd have rather stopped them cold then given them a little bump in the road.

The scale of this war was so vast that I knew I could never understand the intricacies of the Lord General's plans, even if I lived through and then read the histories written of it afterwards. In the grand scheme of things, our stand would never be remembered. It was a little thing, the lives of a hundred Cadian Whiteshields. We'd be wiped out and replaced in the time it took the Lord General to take our pin off the map and throw it away. But that was the reality of life in service to the Emperor. Our lives only mattered in the service rendered, and the Enemy was ever ravenous. If it took a thousand souls a day to keep the Emperor's Throne tended, then it took a trillion a day more to maintain Imperial territories. What was one hundred compared to that? It was a humbling thought, and one that I had more or less repeated to myself a thousand-thousand times since my first oath.

_There is no greater homage a man can pay_, I reminded myself, _than to die for the Emperor's Honor_.

I ran a hand along the length of my hotshot lasgun. The weapon was thoroughly blessed and prayed for. The fine-sheen of sacred cleaning oils still glimmered on the tip of the barrel. It was a waste, and one that would have been looked on disapprovingly by the Mechanicus, but every Guardsman had his quirk. Mine was to especially bless the barrel. It was a tradition I had learned from Colonel Gainer, the cadre instructor who had trained us how to shoot the eye off a rat at two hundred meters when I was little more than a boy. My thumb rubbed clockwise across the oil and spread the remainder across the now-dry vents. That little tingle of assurance ran through my arm and I broke the frown that marred my face. It would not fail me in the battle ahead. I might not understand the grand campaign, but as long as I had faith in my lasgun I was good to go. If anything would get me through this fool's run, it would be my wits, my gun, and the Emperor's blessing.

Huh, Emperor's blessing. I sincerely doubted I was important enough to earn that privilege. That kind of shatko was reserved for Saints, Astartes, and Heroes. I wasn't any of those. Hell, I wasn't even a proper Kasrkin anymore. I was a damned cadre sergeant for a bunch of teenage soldiers. Soldiers like me weren't important to anyone but the men we were standing beside.

"Battle lines are in sight" the driver announced over the vox. Everyone turned to look at the speaker. One man was so pale I thought he might pass out in his seat. "One minute to drop off. Emperor bless, grunts."

The Chimera lurched suddenly to one side. A muffled explosion sounded behind me and the shockwave lifted us out of our seats and onto our feet. Most men were alert enough to grab a handrail, but a couple tripped and fell face-first into the opposite wall. Someone threw up. The sound of vomit splashing on the hard rubber grip set many of the others retching. I held back from ordering them to stop it. It would do no good. Instead I pounded the top of the compartment to gather their attention. They gathered their weapons and held them in white-knuckled grips.

"Remember what we taught you" I barked. I knew the lieutenant was giving this same speech in his Chimera. "Stick to your battle bud, take careful shots, keep your head down! This is no worse than your training. The Enemy is expecting us to roll over and die for them. How about we punch them straight in the teeth instead?" I took a breath and looked each of them in the eye. They could not see mine through the closed visor, but I turned my head so they would know. It brought them a small measure of courage. A couple flashed weak smiles and hooted with what little enthusiasm they could drum up. It was enough for me.

"When you get out of the Chimera, get into the trenches! Do not stop for anything. If the man beside you falls, keep running. If you get hit, crawl. If you drop your weapon, don't turn around to grab it. You will make it into that trench or so help me I will shoot you myself. Do you understand?"

A few nervous chuckles rippled through the squad. The Chimera bucked again, but this time I could smell the ozone come boiling into the compartment. Heat washed over us and buffeted the men nearest the driver's hatch. We skidded forward a few more meters before stuttering to a halt. I nearly lost my footing as the Chimera jerked into a downward angle. Stumbling forward over the Whiteshields' feet to get to the hatch up front, I banged once on it and felt the handle. It was jammed and hot.

"Driver, get us moving!"

There was no response. A quick feel of the hatch itself told me we no longer had a driver. Dwelling on the turn of events would have done us no good. In a heartbeat I had adjusted and turned to face the Whiteshields. Pointing to the far door, I barked for them to move.

"Get those open. We've got to leg it. Move! Move! Move!"

The men leapt to the order, moving with the alacrity that only adrenaline could provide. One threw the door down and the others ran out and scattered in textbook formation. I was right behind them, shouting the order to continue on before I even hit dirt. This was combat drill, not deployment drill. The kind of shells that were falling would wipe us all out if they hit even close. The spread wouldn't matter. Gesturing to each side, I ordered them to spread in a line and start hoofing it. The Whiteshields stood about for a second to catch their bearings. The more alert ones started off without so much as a "Yes Sarge!" Growling under my breath, I shouldered through the remainders and took in the situation in a glance.

The driver's compartment was crumpled in, shattered by an unexploded artillery round. We were a good seventy meters from the line. Two other Chimeras were down, one smoking and belching flame as the ammunition inside cooked off. The heavy weapons platoon. The other was crawling forward on its own momentum. The doors opened and a dozen men stumbled out. They were dazed and falling about like drunks on shore leave. A few had the wits to begin limping towards the trenches. Then a trio of explosions tore through them and sent bloody chunks of meat flying through the air. I could smell the cooking flesh from a distance. Not a single man remained standing from the entire Chimera.

"To the lines" I shouted, pointing ahead.

The squad started moving immediately. Some sprinted, others ran at a zigzag. There was no wrong answer except to stay put. Artillery rounds continued to fall. The other Chimeras were already reaching the lines where they were greeted with cheers. The third one to reach was thrown high in the air by a ground-shaking explosion, flipping end over end, and landed on the far side of trenches. Battered soldiers crawled out and were dragged into the trenches by the 94th Guardsmen. Another lost control and careened straight into the trench network, taking out a stubber emplacement and crushing the crew even as they scrambled to safety.

My whole body was on fire with energy. The ground was rough and jagged from craters. Blood and water had turned the field into mud and guck that sucked at our boots and slowed us down with every step. Trooper Kirt had already lost a boot to the mud and was staggering forward with one of his buddies slung over his back. The two of the men disappeared in a flash of fire and blood. I charged straight through the steaming red cloud left in their wake, trusting the ancient adage that artillery never strikes the same spot twice.

The platoon's vox operator had been on my Chimera and was one of the frontrunners. He was making good progress until a nearby mortar shell threw out a hail of shrapnel his way. I watched him spin a sudden jerky circle, arms twirling like a dancer in an opera. His throat, chest, and thighs were flayed to the bone. Blood sprayed across my visor and I dodged a flying chip of flak armor. His eyes were wide and pleading as he tumbled onto his back. I dropped to a knee beside him. The others started to look back, but I motioned for them to go on.

The man moaned weakly, grasping at my arms. I shoved his hands away and sliced through the straps holding his vox. It came off easily, already loosened by the explosion. The sound he made might have been one of horror and betrayal, but I did not stop to listen.

"Your soul to the Emperor's side" I intoned. He was still reaching after me as I hurried off after the others, dragging the vox behind me. If he was lucky another explosion would kill him before he bled to death in the mud and mire of the field. Slow deaths were the worst kind.

The barrage was growing more intense. The heavy guns were lightening up; the lighter guns were growing heavier. I began to see ordinary mortar rounds landing in little spurts amidst the volcanic siege shells. Three more from my Chimera died before reaching the lines. The Whiteshields slid into the trench with care, somehow finding the sense of mind to watch their step. I did no such thing. A cluster of men stood by watching me come in. I hurled the vox to them and dove in feet first. Someone caught me as I flew in, hurling me around in an arc and using my momentum to toss me against the edge of the trench. The result was I slammed hard into the dirt, but I was still on my feet and snapping to a salute even as my vision swam.

"You're the fracking reinforcements?" The gruff voice came from my right. I blinked a few times to clear my vision and located the source. It was a Cadian officer with scuffed armor and a hasty bandage wrapped around his left calf. The bandages were stained deeply with blood. A lieutenant insignia showed on his chest pips. I saluted absently. The man's face was grim but determined. His helmet was cocked slightly off-center, giving him a roguish command appeal.

"What made it across, sir." I dropped my salute and looked around. It was hard to count all of the Whiteshields; they were already being shoved into firing positions. I did not see the Lieutenant anywhere. "Looks like our heavy weapons platoon ate it. Our LT here?"

"Haven't seen another officer come in" the man growled. He pointed without further preamble. "You're a Kasrkin, so you know the deal. How good are these Whiteshields?"

"Good enough" I replied. "These troops are green, but they'll hold. You the officer in charge?"

"Highest ranking survivor. Arnold" the man answered. We all glanced over in the direction of an explosion. It had landed very close, close enough to spray us with dirt. Now that there were no more Chimeras to take shots at, the majority of the shelling was landing in and around the trenches. "Frack it, I'm assigning you to my staff." He chuckled dryly. "Follow me. We need to go coordinate with the JC. Oh, and thanks for salvaging the vox. We could definitely use another one. Ours is scattered in about a hundred pieces somewhere over there, along with the operator."

Our heads remained low as we sprinted along the trench network. There were two kilometers of line to held. It was a small amount on an ordinary battlefield, but here it might as well have been half the world. I got a good look at how few men were left as we crossed the lines. Men were grouped in twos and threes five regular intervals, but the space between each group was alarming. There couldn't have been more than a couple hundred left. If only we had some heavy weapons, this could be a defensible position.

It was painfully clear that the 94th was nowhere close to full strength. Flak-armored ordinance staff armed with scavenged lasguns made up a good portion of the defensive line. Many of the defenders were walking wounded, and a few of the more critically injured ones had been laid in positions where they could still shoot even if they were immobilized. There was no triage center, no reserve team. Every man was on the line. I looked around for heavy weapons buried into hardpoints. None. The question was, were they destroyed or out of ammunition? Considering the fighting these men had been through, either option seemed plausible.

"Are those the 248th?" I gestured towards a pair of men jostling an empty oil can into their cover.

"The 248th was stationed on Line Blue" Lieutenant Arnold said. "Most of their vehicles were destroyed in the initial assaults. One Griffon made it to this point, but it was destroyed in the last assault. They've held the line with the rest of us since."

"And they volunteered to stay?"

"We volunteered them" the man said, his voice full of steel. "Though in truth most were willing. They retreated on orders alone, and left a lot of comrades behind. They've more than proven themselves as frontline soldiers."

"Honorable" I muttered. It struck me as bitterly ironic that these artillery crews had more combat experience than the company I had brought in to reinforce them. Another explosion sent smoke billowing into the trench ahead. I saw one of the Whiteshields crawl out of the smoke, his flamer jiggling on his back. The man staggered to his feet as we approached, a terrified, but excited grin on his face. A second Whiteshield hurried up to his back and set about strapping the flamer down tighter. They threw themselves against the trench and pressed the promethium tank under cover. I patted the flamer-carrier on the back as we moved past. Keep the fuel safe, good kids. They weren't hopeless.

"What are we expecting?"

"So far, we've seen mobs and mobs of infantry. They're the usual fodder: ragged cultists and traitorous Guardsmen that sold their souls to Chaos. For the most part they're armed like us, but they don't have any of the training or survival instincts. We've been mowing them down in droves, but there's always more. With luck, that's all we'll see. What are the reports from Command?"

"You don't want to know." I shook my head. "Suffice to say that when the Lord General unleashes the armies behind us, these louts will be swept back to the hellfire they came from."

"When will that be?"

I didn't answer. He had the wisdom to not repeat the question. There were rank-and-file soldiers around and the news wouldn't do them any good. His face soured noticeably.

"Then we will hold the line to give them as much time as we can."

"Will they hold to the last?"

"They will" the lieutenant assured me. "Even if they weren't determined, _she_ is."

"Who?" I turned to watch as a black-clad figure strode through the lines towards us. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at. In a sea of dark green armor, the black and crimson uniform stood out like an Ork among Eldar. I stared in confusion, because the figure was holding a lasgun and had a bandolier of grenades slung over one shoulder. Then I saw the figure wipe her brow with a familiar wheel cover. A Commissar. Somehow, their fracking Commissar had survived this far.

"Junior Commissar Arreita Blake" Lieutenant Arnold said in way of introduction. "She was attached to the 94th a few months ago under Commissar Oden."

I saluted as the woman approached. She was young, which made sense if this was her Juniorship. I guessed her age somewhere around nineteen, possibly even younger. Under the grime and weariness in her face she still bore signs of the last remnants of baby fat on her face. She had a femininely strong face with violet eyes, coal-black hair, and skin so pale she was almost albino. For a short moment I allowed myself to try and remember where I had seen that before. Something about her face struck me as familiar. Commissars went to the Schola like stormtroopers, but I had at least ten years on her. Maybe I had met a brother or something at some point. Orphans could still have siblings. She did not give me the opportunity to ponder the odd familiarity.

"Madam Commissar" I said in greeting. She returned the salute crisply. Her eyes raked over my armor for the unit marking before turning to Lieutenant Arnold. The brief movement pulled back her cape enough to reveal the bolt pistol strapped to her hip and the power sword slung over her back. That was an unusual position for the weapon, but workable. Interesting.

"The right flank is dangerously low on bodies and ammunition. They will not hold in another assault as they are. The reinforcements have arrived?"

"Pitifully few" the lieutenant answered. "A single company, lost their heavy weapons and officer on the ride across. This is…"

"Troop Sergeant Kane, Madam Commissar. Brought you some more bodies."

She cast a critical eye over my gear again. "When we requested reinforcements I did not realize they were sending us Kasrkin. Finally some good news."

"Sorry to disappoint, Madam Commissar." I gestured down the lines. "I'm on cadre duty: your reinforcements are Whiteshields fresh out of training. They're set up along the line that way. Took heavy casualties getting to you and we're minimally equipped. But these men will stand their ground and they're ready to die for the Emperor. You can be sure of that."

A disappointed grimace slugged its way across her lips, but she nodded and looked back to the Lieutenant. The artillery was beginning to slacken. The enemy would be coming soon. I tripped on a jutting bit of dir-

That was a leg. Blinking in surprise, I studied the trenches again and realized that the trenches were lined with the dead. Scores of slain soldiers, stripped of armor, weapons, ammunition, and anything useful, sat shoulder to shoulder along the rear wall of the trench. Most were recognizable, but some were so badly burnt or hacked or blown apart that I could hardly tell they were human. The line continued unbroken in both directions. These were the men that had already fallen.

"Then we shall hold the right flank, for there the fighting will be the fiercest. I hope your detachment to training the recruits has not dulled your prowess, Sergeant Kane."

"Just made me eager to put the fear of the Emperor in some heretics" I promised. The answer satisfied her.

"To the lines, gentlemen. I hope you said your prayers today."

She swept down the trench with fire in her step. Every man she passed turned to salute her, and I noticed something that made me give the young Commissar another look. They were not saluting out of fear, like the soldiers of so many units that I had fought alongside. These men respected her, were encouraged to see her walk past. A few exchanged words with her, and she appeared to know most of them by their first name. One tossed her a powerpack fresh off the little fire they had created in a little hollow of their trench-line. She caught it and shoved it into a pocket with a nod and a blessing that left the man grinning from ear to ear.

The scene struck me as utterly ridiculous. The 94th was chock full of grizzled veterans but they were looking up to a fresh-faced kid-Commissar, and a woman for that matter. She must have proven her worth many times over on the battlefield to earn that kind of respect. I studied the power sword slung over her shoulder. It was neither shiny nor pristine, even though it appeared fairly new and well cared for. The links were cleaned, but the stains of blood and gore still decorated the blade.

"Looks like you got yourselves a solid Commissar" I muttered to Lieutenant Arnold. He grinned and nodded.

"She was a bit of a rough fit at the start, but since this damned invasion she's earned her place. Commissar Oden bit it at Line Blue and she's stepped in admirably. Yesterday she threw herself into a crowd of cultists that were mobbing the last heavy bolter team. Killed six of them with her power sword before we could get a team over to reinforce the position. She's not afraid to dirty her hands, and she's got a good head on her shoulders. Understands when to prod the men and when to let them have their way. Hell, I'd take her over a squad of Kasrkin. No offense intended" he added hastily.

I shrugged to let him know I didn't care. Years on the frontline of so many warzones had taught me that the right person in the right place could have extreme effect. "Sounds liked you rolled a natural 20."

"More or less." The lieutenant pushed me to the wall as a shell screamed close by. It exploded just a few feet away from the trench. Shrapnel rained down around us, but it did no real damage. I slapped his shoulder and we hurried off after the Commissar, who had stood through the rain without flinching. She huffed impatiently as we caught up and we continued on.

The final barrage shell exploded to our rear. I turned and watched the dirt come raining down on the 94th. There were no cries of victory or reassurance from our lines. Even the Whiteshields knew what was coming now. Weapons were primed and men threw themselves into their firing positions with frantic prayers crossing their lips. The calm would only last a few minutes, and when it was over there was a butcher's bill that needed filling. We were the pen that would fill it out.

"Prepare yourselves" Commissar Blake cried. Her voice boomed down the trench, augmented by a hand-speaker she produced from her belt. "The Enemy is coming. He thinks we are weak and tired and ready to surrender. He thinks our faith is shaken by a paltry barrage of guns. Let us prove him wrong today! When the Enemy comes he will find our guns hot to greet him! He will find our hearts filled with the steel of the Emperor's fury! Let every man here take account today, and find himself not wanting. The Emperor is watching, Cadians! He will lead us to glorious victory today, and when the last body falls, the Enemy will know who we are! Who are we?"

"_THE EMPEROR'S FURY! AVE IMPERATOR!_"

The cry rose from every throat along the lines. Cheers rang out in its wake, and men whooped and hollered as they made their final adjustments. I felt a little touch of thrill myself. Her command voice was a very stirring one and she knew the right words for our situation. She could have had a grand career in the Guard, if circumstances had been different. Her death here would be a tragedy for Cadia. So much potential lost.

Finding a firing step on the line, I stood up to it and peered out at the carrion-ridden battlefield. Corpses littered the ground as far as the eye could see. I saw many clad in Guard armor, those that had been slain as they retreated, but by far the majority wore little more than rags or makeshift armor. Those were the Enemy, and their numbers were uncountable. It was as if a godly hand had scooped up an entire city's graveyard and scattered ten generations of corpses across the shattered land. There had to be well over a few thousand slain. Several wrecked vehicles were scattered through the carnage as well. Some Chimeras here and there, a few Griffon siege vehicles, and lots of trucks. Dozens of ugly armored vehicles lay about in various states of destruction. The sheer numbers bore testament to the resolve of the 94th and those that stood beside them.

"That gun" Lieutenant Arnold said, coming up beside me. He tipped his head towards my hotshot lasgun. "Can be a game changer here. Save your ammunition, Sergeant. Prioritize your targets and leave the regular scum to us."

"Define priority targets." I saw the first hints of a dust cloud in the distance. Setting my eye to the scope, I began to check distances and landmarks. There were a lot to choose, so I settled with those things most directly in front of us. "I thought you said these were mostly mobs."

"They are" the lieutenant agreed. "But they are not completely without leadership. Be on the lookout for mutants and anyone who looks like a leader. That's how we've gotten them to retreat in the past. Once their leaders go down the rest panic and retreat."

"Seriously?"

"I know, it's strange." Lieutenant Arnold shook his head. "Nothing they do makes sense. My guess would be that the ones we are facing aren't wholly bought into the taint yet."

The Commissar cut in suddenly, voice dripping with acid. "And that is not something you should be guessing about, gentlemen. Leave the perverse to their fate. The only thing worth knowing is that they will die when you shoot them."

"Sounds good." I primed the magazine and flicked the safety off. Dialing it down to low power, I began memorizing the layout of the ground ahead. The ground was choppy and riddled with craters both large and small. Despite the lack of discernible organization I saw something that made me hesitate. There was a pattern to the wreckage of the Imperial vehicles. They were more or less in a line, angling straight towards our position. I cursed and double-checked the ground around us. It was faint, but the layers were visible under the mud and earth that made the trench walls.

"Lieutenant, we're sitting on a road, aren't we?"

"We are."

"Then this is the horn, isn't it?" I reached down with my trigger hand and checked my sidearm. The laspistol was also primed, but I left the safety on. If it got that desperate I could draw, arm and fire it in the time it took a man to blink.

"Huh?"

"The landscape naturally funnels people in this direction. It's the path of least resistance. That's why there are so many dead behind us." I pointed to the double-line of corpses at the rear of the trench. Glanced back over the lip, I saw they had piled the dead Enemy soldiers in heaps to strengthen our cover. Brutal, but effective.

"Yeah." He flashed a grim smile. "Aren't you glad I put you on my staff?"

"What staff" I said with a chuckle. I liked this lieutenant. He wasn't afraid, I realized. His heart was devoted to this battle, and nothing would shake that. "It's just you and me."

"And me" Commissar Blake said. She took her place on my other side with the battered lasgun and a second magazine strapped to the first. That was a nifty little trick that only veterans knew. Once again, I found myself impressed with the young Junior Commissar. I studied the lasgun for a moment, curious. It was a lascarbine, not the Kantrael MG, or even the M36. Odd, given the choices available. It certainly did not look like her personal weapon.

She was aware that I was watching her. Her eyes gazed back for a moment, lips pursed in a frown. When I noted her watching I looked back at the incoming dust cloud.

"Something on your mind, Sergeant?"

"Nothing, Madam Commissar. Just noticing that you're pretty heavily armed. Most Commissars I've met would swear by their bolters and chainswords."

"The bolter and sword are my weapons of choice, but the numbers we are facing requires something more" she replied. "These soldiers gave their lives for the Emperor, but their weapons remain. It is fitting to honor their sacrifice by continuing to slay the Enemy in their name."

_Naïve, but appropriate_, I thought. She could do without the hyper-religious aspect and just say that the lascarbine had more ammunition and better range.

"What was his name?"

"Trooper Reinhart." Her eyes flashed in challenge. She lifted the weapon and showed a dog tag wrapped around the trigger guard. "Autocannon Loader. He held his position until the autocannon was dry and they were overrun. Shot over a dozen times before he finally went down, and hurled himself at the Enemy with a grenade in each hand. His sacrifice turned the tide."

_Well, shit._ I nodded in respect. "He would be honored to know that his weapon is still finding use."

A little huff shook her narrow frame and she looked down the sights of her lasgun. Shifting slightly, she adjusted her posture for a better fit. "I'd suggest you focus on the enemy, Sergeant. A man distracted is a man useless."

Choosing to not reply, I went back to watching the incoming cloud. I could see shapes moving now, a lot of shapes. There were no vehicles at far as I could tell. This would be a pure infantry battle. That gave us slightly better odds of survival. Infantry were much easier to kill.

"Hold your fire" the Lieutenant ordered. Someone behind relayed the command. I turned curiously and saw a Guardsman had picked up the vox I had brought in. Ah, hadn't noticed that. How long had he been standing there? "Wait until I give the order."

Returning to the Enemy, I continued searching the cloud through my scope. A shape caught my eye.

"Is that what I think it is?"

A handful of larger shapes were beginning to make themselves known among the horde. I squinted down my scope. It did not have much magnification, but it was enough to make the targets visible in the mad throng. My blood froze in my veins when I saw the powerful, superhuman forms striding across the plain. They stood twice as tall as normal men, and their armor was covered in spikes, trophies, and vicious runes that I knew would hurt to look at up close. Their weapons were enormous and their swords glowed with power fields. Traitor Marines.

"_Emperor's mercy flow from the heavens_" I murmured. The Lieutenant shot me a sidelong look. "_The Emperor preserves his children with the fires of His holy wrath. Many are the heretic that seek to torture our souls. The Emperor is a bulwark the brings salvation…_"

I ran through the litany as I flicked the lasgun back up to full power. The Lieutenant saw the subtle motion and recognition dawned in his eyes. He swallowed hard and leaned back into his weapon. Though he could barely hear my words, he joined in. I heard the Commissar doing the same. Our three voices cut an eerie choir in our small portion of the battlefield. The Commissar's rich alto, the Lieutenant's tenor, and my vox-adjusted bass gave the litany a dirge-like quality. It was supposed to be a petition for safekeeping. None of us held that illusion.

The Enemy infantry was getting closer. Random shots began to punch into the trenches, but they were poorly aimed and not a threat. I could see the color on the Traitor Marines, though in truth I knew too little about them to understand the markings. Black and gold. It did not matter what color they were. They were all the same in death.

"On your shot" the Lieutenant said. I nodded and picked the most important looking of the fallen angels. He was unhelmeted, his face a mass of scars and weeping sores. Something glowed in one hand, perhaps a plasma pistol. Interesting. I debated between his head and the pistol. Either one could have spectacular results. Both were almost impossible shots.

"Firing" I finally said when I reached my decision. My finger flicked the selector down to low power and closed on the trigger. I made a smooth pull and launched the first round of the battle. A dazzling scarlet beam whipped across the battlefield and struck the Traitor Marine full in the chest. It hardly slowed him down. Through my scope I saw his eyes narrow and he looked directly at me. His mouth opened in a bellow that was too far away to hear. I grinned. The overconfident oaf thought it was a misfire, a jumped shot. Traitor Marines were as hard to kill as battle tanks, but they weren't nearly as smart as the Imperial ones. He pointed with his huge sword and charged straight towards me. The lowly cultists around him were scattered like ninepins by his momentum. He killed a few with sweeping strokes of his sword to clear the way. No one noticed or complained.

"You missed" the Lieutenant hissed. He shot me an exasperated look.

"Nope. I just pissed him off."

"How is that-"

I reset the lasgun to full power and fired a single shot. The beam that left my rifle was darker, larger, and much more deadly. The Marine could have dodged it, but he was not expecting a lethal shot. He was expecting the light shot that would, at worst, leave a new scar that he could brag about. His mistake. The scarlet light punched through his face like a battering ram, erasing his features like a painter burning his artwork. His body trundled forward a dozen feet before the realization that it had no head made its way to the nerves and muscles. It dropped slowly to its knees, posture just as stiff as a Mordian on parade. It didn't even fall until I fired a third shot that tipped it over backwards. Its plasma pistol exploded in a roiling ball of blue flame, engulfing the front-running heretics. Most died instantly, but a few survived long enough to scream and run about like animated torches.

"You gotta learn how to bait them" I told the lieutenant. "But that trick will only work once. Light them up!"

The lieutenant spat the order to the vox operator. "All soldiers, open fire!"

There were few things more exciting to watch than the opening volley of lasguns. The lightshow was absolutely beautiful, so brilliant and dazzling in its destructive might. Cultists fell by the dozens as the fire tore into them. A single heavy bolter joined the cacophony, its comforting _whump-whump-whump_ bursts cracking like heaven-sent thunder. I did not wait and watch. Switching to the next nearest Traitor Marine, I started firing.

This one was helmeted, armed with a bolter, and utterly undisturbed by the fall of its comrade. It returned fire on the run, bolter shells landing to dammed close that I was tempted to duck behind cover. My first shot missed by a wide margin as he nimbly leapt to the side, not breaking his stride or his aim. Hot blood splashed on the dirt beside me. Something fell against the wall by my side and I heard the hissing crackle of a vox. Our operator was down. How the hell had he been hit? Shifting my fire, I began putting round after round downrange towards the Marine. He dodged most of them, caught the rest on less vulnerable parts of his body like the forearms and shoulders. It was at that moment I wished I had a squad of my fellow Kasrkin at my side. We would have taken him down easily in this charge. A single hotshot could not do much damage.

"Come on, you fracking dancer." I cursed as yet another shot missed. It carried on and split a cultist in half at the neck. A wasted shot. I would not be able to hit him, not when he was focused on me. I needed to find a way to distract him.

Or pick a new target. I switched my aim over to the next Traitor Marine I could find. He had a bolter in one hand, a wickedly large chainaxe in the other. He was moving too quickly for me to draw a clear shot on his head, so I settled with the next best thing. Three shots in rapid succession struck his side as I unleashed a five-second burst. The Traitor Marine stumbled as he ran but did not lose his balance. His helmet turned in my direction and I found myself the sole object of wrath for two angry Traitor Marines.

Somehow, I thought grimly, this did not make my situation better.

I continued firing as this one came on. He did not bother dodging or blocking. High-powered shot after high-powered shot struck him in the chest, legs, and arms. None of them told. My lasgun clicked dry when the magazine was exhausted. I ejected it and slapped a fresh magazine in, not bothering to pocket the spent one. If I survived, I could find it later. I put four more rounds into the bolter-and-axe wielding Traitor Marine before he reached our line. He was a full fifty meters ahead of the cultist horde and gaining with each bounding step.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

I leapt back from the trench and continued firing. His armor was blackened and cracked. Blood seeped from the wounds that had punctured. None of it slowed him down. He could be wounded a hundred times before showing it. The bolter in his hand erupted as he aimed to the side, killing a trio of Guardsmen that were preparing grenade belts. His chainaxe was grinding and ready to quench its thirst in blood.

He was still in the air when softer bolt weapon erupted. Commissar Blake's bolt pistol punched into the already weakened armor of his chest and shells burst inside his guts. That did the trick. The Traitor Marine landed awkwardly on his knees, weapons flailing. I dodged under his chain-axe and shoved the barrel of my lasgun between the joint of his helmet and his chest armor. Pumping the trigger madly, I fired until his head fell off and the stench of cooking flesh made me want to vomit. His bolter was still firing, nerveless finger clenched on the trigger. Two shots into the body of the gun silenced it for good.

"Well done" the lieutenant called out. His lasgun was firing as fast as he could find targets. "But we're not out of the fire yet. How about you get back to killing the other one."

I took a step back again as my previous target leapt the trench. His bolter must have run out of ammunition, because he had a large combat knife in one hand and a chainsword in the other. The impact of his humongous body sent a shockwave through the dirt, loosening the ground under my feet. He was huge, even for an Astartes. Foul energy poured out of the man in waves, turning the air icy and clawing at my courage. Just looking at the Traitor Marine made my eyes burn.

My frown slackened behind my visor. The hotshot felt unbearably heavy in my hands. It took all of my effort to lift it and take aim. I shot him twice in the helmet before he shoulder-charged me into the back of the trench. My guts felt like they burst inside me. His helmet with the glowing red eye-slits burned in my face. Terror flooded me and I choked on a scream. Terrible pounding filled my head and I was sure that my ears had started bleeding.

"YOUR DEATH SHALL FEED THE GODS OF CHAOS!"

A power sword hummed to life behind him. He jerked suddenly, helmet twisting away as Commissar Blake slashed across his unprotected back. The shriek of the blade slicing through his armor screamed sweetly in my ears. The Traitor Marine whirled around, both weapons swinging. The Commissar barely dodged aside, returning to a dueling stance with the power sword held between them. She might have had the more powerful weapon, but he was much faster and stronger. Her face twisted in a fearless scowl nonetheless. She spat at the ground between them.

"You wretched existence ends here. I will slay you in the Emperor's name."

The Traitor Marine's laughter boomed through the trench. His sheer voice sent us staggering back and filled our minds with one thought: Run Away. Flee and save yourself. I had never felt this before. It was a power that was utterly unrivalled. He could crush us all in an instant if he wanted to.

"YOU DARE STAND AGAINST A CHAMPION OF KHORNE?"

I snatched up my lasgun and took a bead on the back of his head. His combat knife flicked out suddenly, burying itself into my bicep. I cried out in pain and spun away. The force of his knife throw slammed me into the trench wall. He made a half-skip to the side and raised his chainsword to cut me in half. There was no way I could block it in time.

"For Cadia!"

The Lieutenant charged in with his own chainsword. He screamed a war cry that was lost in the raging battle, but the fury in his eyes was clear. His blade scraped across the Traitor Marine's back-plate. The Cadian did not have the strength to muscle the chainsword into a real wound. His weapon scratched paint, but it distracted the foul Champion. Dodging back, he attempted to duplicate the Commissar's maneuver. He wasn't fast enough; the Champion's return stroke took his head clean off his shoulders. His body collapsed on top of the fallen vox operator, blood spurting out in an obscene stream. People shouldn't have bled that much. That was the Ruinous Powers at work.

The only comfort was that the defensive strike left the Champion off-balance. Seizing the opportunity, the Junior Commissar lunged at his exposed side, weapon slashing across his midsection in the hope of reaching that thin unarmored strip near his belt. Again, she had to pull her blow short to avoid being cut in half. The Champion slapped her blade away with his hand, taunting her as he did so. His point was clear, and he emphasized it by stomping forward and bellowing at her.

Her lips pressed together in barely controlled fury. Their blades cut the air in a deadly game of cat-and-mouse, with Commissar Blake as the mouse. She aimed for his chainsword first, trying to disable it and give herself the upper hand. The Champion was onto her game, but he appeared content with making her dance away from his own strokes. They were both masterful swordsmen. I snarled as I watched her facing off against the Traitor Marine. She wouldn't stand a chance on her own. Once he tired of this game he would kill her in an instant. I had to do something.

My hotshot lay at my feet. I ripped the combat knife free and hurled it aside. Lifting the lasgun with my off-hand, I braced it against my shoulder and fired a shot straight into the vents on its back. I must have hit a power cell or something, because flames shot out of its back and crept along its armor. The fire whisked around him like it had its own mind, engulfing him but not damaging him. The fire only made him more terrifying, but it did earn a grunt and a nasty look in my direction. The Champion hesitated and turned towards me. He drove Commissar Blake back with a lightning-fast sweep of his chainsword. The Marine screamed, not in pain, but in glory as it savored the pain.

"YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED PUT, MORTAL. LOOK UPON THE FACE OF YOUR EXECUTIONER!"

He reached up and ripped his helmet free. The fearsome scowl on his face made me want to soil my armor. He thrust with the chainsword, aiming for my midsection. Diving into a combat roll, I landed out of his reach and fired into his exposed knee. The Commissar went for his other knee, catching his open defenses and slicing through to the bone. She retreated and struck again and again, ducking and squirming around each strike of the Champion's chainsword. I had never seen a human that dexterous on her feet. She had abandoned her cautiousness and was attacking with unrestrained fury.

The tide had turned, and the Champion knew that. His face twisted in rage and he began throwing himself at us. But we were ready, and his movements had lost their preciseness. Every time he turned to me, she struck and drew blood. Every time he turned to her, I shot him again and again in any unarmored point I could find. The flames began to sink in and boil his flesh. Real pain began to make itself known, though none of it looked like it would slow him down. The entire time he was yelling with fury. When he finally sank to his knees, blood gushing from dozens of wounds that each would have killed an ordinary man, I had used up a whole second magazine. Commissar Blake finished him off with an overhanded swing that split him from head to sternum.

And then the Enemy was flooding the trenches. I greeted the first one with a shot through his throat. Priming a grenade, I hurled it over the lip of the trench and let the explosion take care of the ones behind him. Switching my lasgun to a lower power setting, I started putting rounds through them as they came over. There were so many. Commissar Blake rushed to my side, firing with a recovered lasgun. A couple of Guardsmen rushed in from further down the trench and joined us. Our firepower held the Enemy off for only a few seconds before so many poured through we were swarmed.

Hand-to-hand was not something I relished. I hacked and stabbed with my bayonet and the fallen Lieutenant's chainsword. Heads rolled, limbs were severed, people were screaming and falling in the mud. It was a blur, it always was. Reality faded to a dull echo in the back of my mind as I lunged at anything wearing red or blue. Green and black were good, red and blue were bad. Kill the first. Move on to the next. Find a third. Two at a time. Stab him in the back. Block the axe. Slit his throat. Bash his brains in. It was like a never-ending frenzy of death.

Nothing was never-ending. Eventually the rush subsided, and I was staring at a trench full of the dead and dying. All but one of our reinforcing troopers had joined the dead, and Commissar Blake was leaning heavily on her power sword. Her face was as pale as paper-sheaf but she looked unhurt. The Trooper at our side had plenty of scratches and bruises, but he had thrown himself to the firing pit and was shooting madly into the retreating Enemy.

Without wasting a moment I gathered up my precious hotshot magazines. Stuffing them into pockets, I collected everything I had dropped and hooked the lieutenant's chainsword to my belt. It had proven more than useful and I had a feeling I would need it again. The weapon was well-crafted and old; I had a feeling it was an inherited weapon that had been passed down. It must have had plenty of kills to its name.

"That's it?" I limped to the trench and looked out. The horde was retreating. Scattered, accurate fire from the Cadian lines were dropping them like flies. I didn't understand. There were so many left. They could have come in with their bare hands and ripped us to pieces by virtue of sheer numbers.

"Why are they running" I asked aloud. "There's got to be at least a couple thousand still out there."

Commissar Blake pulled herself up beside me. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

"Perhaps we broke them. With the loss of their leaders," she motioned to the fallen Traitor Marines, "their spirit must have shattered. They have always shown cowardice in the face of the faithful."

"Nah, they're all loons. Did you see them?" I kicked over the corpse of an Enemy. It had been a man once, but now its face was warped with extra teeth, eyes, and other disgusting things that didn't belong. "Most of them are little more than wild animals. Something big had to have called this assault off."

"I do not like the sound of that." She turned and pointed to the lone trooper who was still with us. "You, name?"

"Trooper Brunson, Madam Commissar."

I turned back to the man. He was one of the Siege Company soldiers. "I'm assuming command here. Get us a headcount of the survivors, now! Report back to me with the next highest-ranking soldier in the outfit. We need the chain of command up and running yesterday. Also, I want numbers on those who can and can't fight, ammunition, breach points, and especially that heavy bolter."

"Belay that order!"

Commissar Blake pointed in the distance. I turned and saw the mass of retreating soldiers begin to regroup. They were not coming back towards us, but organizing into solid blocks of infantry formations. They were just barely in range, and careful shots by some of the more skilled marksmen were dropping them even as they formed up. The others were utterly unbothered by the losses. And they were no longer just infantry. Twenty vehicles now decorated the Chaos force. They were large, heavily armored, and surrounded by crowds of Traitor Marines. The kid gloves were off. We were about to be attacked by a wave of Traitor Marines.

I sighed and looked about the trenches. Two more Guardsmen limped in from further down the line. One was barely walking, leaning on his lasgun as a crutch. They did not bother reporting in, they simply moved to firing positions and began gathering fallen lasguns, grenades, and anything they could use. They moved like dead men, limbs jerking mechanically. I could see the exhaustion in their eyes. These men hadn't slept in days.

"So that's why they ran." I turned to the Commissar and nodded. "They were just softening us up, testing our line before the final push."

"So many…" To her credit, she did not appear frightened. Her pale face grew paler and she took a step towards the firing steps. One hand was clutched to her stomach, and I saw blood seeping from between her fingers. She was soaked in blood all the way to her knees. "Must… hold the… line."

"Easy, Madam Commissar." I eased her to a sitting position. "Don't worry, we've got this."

I motioned for Trooper Brunson. When he approached I pointed to the vox. "Get on the horn and contact Command. Tell them our situation, and order _Shattered Lance_."

"_Shattered Lance_, sir?" He frowned in confusion. That's right, he wouldn't know that term. His unit wasn't designed to be on the front lines; Kasrkin knew the command too well.

"Shattered Lance" I repeated.

"What's…"

"Call it in, damn it!"

The trooper flinched. He scrambled about the body of the fallen vox operator until he found the receiver. Within moments he was shouting into the vox. I heard the response, broken and full of static.

"_Confir…tered Lance." _

Trooper Brunson glanced up at me. Something in the officer's tone made the order click in his head. The receiver slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

"Sergeant…"

I snatched up the receiver. "Confirmed. Shattered Lance. We are facing a major force of Astartes. Armor, transports, infantry. Priority targets. Send everything you've got."

"Shattered Lance confirmed" the officer on the other side said. I thought I heard other voices in the background explode into cross-chatter. That would be the Air controllers signaling the launch bays. "You made the Emperor proud out there."

"Fracking better have" I whispered, vox off and tucked back against the operator's corpse. Rising to my feet, I patted the terrified soldier's shoulder. "On your feet, Trooper. We're still alive and there are plenty of enemies to kill."

We picked our shots, not wasting a single round of our depleted ammunition stores. Maybe one of the Traitor Marines fell, but our lasguns were little better than flashlights painting the targets. The Chaos hordes fired with much more luck. Las and bolter fire exploded against our cover. Rockets pounded into the strong points that had been identified in the last assault. Direct-fire cannons obliterated the heavy bolter team and a dozen men nearby. Trooper Brunson fired quickly and efficiently, taking down twenty enemies before a bolter shell punched through his skull and exploded his torso. His blood rained down around us like horrid confetti.

Commissar Blake lay still in the trench, her face ashen and her skin cold. Her guts had spilled past her limp hand and lay neatly in her lap. She wasn't as fast as I thought she had been. I stopped firing long enough to snatch up her bolt pistol and began firing it in addition to my hotshot. That drew more attention, and a Predator's cannon began to swing my way.

We were hurling the last of our grenades when the Marauder bombers burst from cloud cover and began dropping their payloads.


	2. Hinterlight - Cold Welcome

**Hinterlight, Cell A-13**

I woke with a start and a cry. Sweat stung in my eyes and my clothes were soaked. A medical servitor stood beside my bed, monitoring my vitals with a dull, expressionless face. It turned to regard me for the barest moment before returning to its work. Other than that, I was alone.

My heart was hammering in my chest. A severe pounding ached through my head and spine, the leftover effects of whatever medications they had filled me with. I licked my dry lips as I tried to remember what had happened. The timepiece over the bed told me that two days had passed since our battle on the surface of Kairn. By now the planet would be glass. My entire team was down there, incinerated by the Exterminatus strikes. All of them. Lord Verne, Lady Kairi, Adin, Josephus. They were all dead.

Once again, I had beaten the odds. The thought turned my stomach and I felt vomit boil up my throat. Turning my head, I hacked and retched and felt my throat catch on fire. The servitor shoved a clean bowl under my mouth almost as an afterthought. When I finished I felt no better. There was blood in the bowl. So they hadn't fixed me entirely yet. I wished they hadn't fixed me at all.

The servitor resumed plunking away at the various monitors and consoles surrounding my bed. I watched it through half-closed eyes as it moved about. There was nothing better to do. The servitor had a long and skeletal face with half of its features replaced by cybernetics. It might have been an old man when it was transformed, but I could not tell. In place of a right arm the servitor had a multi-pronged limb with two clamps and one six-fingered mechanical hand. The left arm appeared fairly normal except that it ended at the wrist. There was a socket there, perhaps to allow for modifications on the fly. Even the legs were studded with metallic plates and augmetic boots. The thing was so inhuman that it probably didn't even consider itself alive.

I swallowed a few times, fighting down the burning in my throat with as much saliva as I could muster. It did not come easily. The faint pressure behind my eyes warned me I was dehydrated.

"Water" I croaked. The servitor paused in its work and regarded me. I had hope for a moment.

COMMAND UNRECOGNIZED

It turned back to its work. I cursed and tried to sit up. The restrains on my limbs held me down. The collar around my throat hummed faintly as I twisted my neck around. The collar had me curious. It clearly emitted something, but I was not sure what. Without the ability to get a look at it I had to wonder. That bothered me. Was it a bomb collar? Did Ravenor not trust me so thoroughly that he had me collared to a bomb in case I misbehaved? Well, I could see that. He hated me, and with good reason. Hell, he hated Lord Verne's entire team. It had taken me a little while to ponder the fact that he had chosen to come down and rescue us. A political Inquisitor would have written us off as doomed and blasted us into smithereens alongside the planet.

Ravenor had never struck me as a political man. Flostak had proven that. He preferred to get things done under the radar, and was not afraid to toe the line when he felt it would help his team. That made me nervous. The knowledge that he had a greater purpose in mind for me was more terrifying than the threat of trial and execution.

"**You shall stand trial for the murder of two members of the Adeptas Sororitas and for the charge of heresy. **"

I had spent several hours turning that sentence over in my head. So Lord Verne had been recording everything and sent it up to his ship. That figured, he was a stickler for records. I could understand the charges of murder. Hell, I hadn't exactly tried to hide them, though one of those was debatable. But heresy? Where in the Warp had that come from? I tried to remember the mission, tried to go over every step we had taken. As far as I could tell, there was no basis for the charge. I had fought the enemy to the last; I killed very daemon we ran up against. It would have had to be an implied charge.

It probably wouldn't matter, but implied charges were a bugger to combat. The murder charges alone would earn me an execution. There were a few different routes that the charge could take. Suspected heresy for killing the Sisters. Suspected heresy for resisting Shechem's power… no, that was after Munzi died. They wouldn't know about that. Even if they did, my Blank power would account for it. I was resistant to psychic powers. It had to be a tack-on charge. Adding insult to injury. Because a simple execution would be just too damn easy for them.

_All glory to the warriors of the Empire_. I thought back to the memory, that battle on Cadia. The Marauders had swooped in and wrecked the attacking forces. Promethium bombs had engulfed the lines and burned Imperial and Chaos soldiers without distinction. Hellstorm missiles exploded the tanks and transports like overripe fruit. Autocannons strafed the field and blew anything that moved to pulpy messes. Then came the naval bombardment. Lance rounds from the Navy rained down on the battlefield and obliterated everything in their path. Battle tanks were vaporized in the blink of an eye. Traitor Marines were tossed about like leaves in a storm. It had been a scene of pure, unadulterated carnage. Thousands died. Very few were wounded.

When the smoke cleared there were thirty of us left. Thirty battered survivors crawled out of our holes. Almost two thousand of our comrades were dead, stretched everywhere from Line Blue to a hundred meters to our rear. Not even enough for a proper platoon. Ten Whiteshields, eight Ordinance soldiers, eleven from the 94th, and me. Shellshock took two of those within the next few hours. Three more died of their wounds by nightfall.

When three Imperial armored columns, supported by a full company of Ultramarine Astartes, moved past our position the next morning, twenty three of us came out to meet them. I still remembered my first look at the towering Ultramarine sergeant. I didn't know his name but he looked down at us from the edge of the trench with his pitted and scratched armor and his hulking boltgun and he told me we had done well. Chaos assaults had faltered all along the lines. They had thrown an entire company-strength force of Traitor Marines at us in the hopes of breaking our lines and chasing the supply line all the way back to the nearest Kasr. Shattered Lance had broken the backbone of the Chaos momentum. Now the Imperial forces were on the warpath, and would drive the Chaos hordes into the grave.

It had been a glorious victory for the Imperial Guard. My reward was to be sent back to my unit just in time to get deployed to the Scarus Sector campaigns. That was how mankind rewarded its heroes. It bled them again and again until they were dead.

Calling myself an Imperial hero might have been a bit much, I reflected. Heroes were those lucky bastards that got immortalized, maybe even Sainted. No one would ever remember me. I had done more good with the Inquisition than with the Kasrkin, but those records were sealed away. The only thing I had going for me was what I currently lived with. Right now, that wasn't looking so good.

It would have been better to die against the Daemon.

It was the third day since waking up strapped to the operating table. No one had visited. The servitor was my only companion, a mostly silent guardian whose sole job was to keep me alive. I had tried to speak to it again, but it rebuffed my questions with the same COMMAND UNRECOGNIZED every time. It was as if Ravenor wanted to drive me insane before I even went to trial.

At some point I began to notice the many runes and symbols etched on the walls. They were very faint, subtle things paint in a near-same shade as the bulkheads and ceiling. I studied them for a long time, trying to guess their purpose. Maybe they were more failsafe devices. Clearly, my presence here was not something they were treating lightly. Something was up.

Constant wriggling had left my wrists and ankles chafed. I tried to get the servitor to adjust the straps. COMMAND UNRECOGNIZED. The medicinal fluids were feeding me with just enough nutrients to keep me from getting sick. The headaches were fading to a background pain, something that I could force myself to ignore. Slowly, I was getting better.

Day four. Something had changed while I slept. The tubes were all gone; I had been unplugged. All of the medical equipment had disappeared as well, and I was left in an empty room save for the bed and an altar that had been set up in the corner of the room. Heavy, pungent fumes emanated outwards, carried on dark green smoke that curled around my body as if it was alive. It was a sickeningly sweet smell, like crushed plums mixed with jellied nuts. The scent reminded me of how hungry I was. My stomach growled and whined as I sat up and rubbed my chafed wrists.

And the restraints were gone. It felt good to move again, even though I could not move far. I took my time easing off of the bed. Even the small drop to the floor sent needles through my feet. A throaty curse cracked across my dry tongue and I clutched the edge of the bed. It took my legs a while to remember how to hold up straight. Whatever they had drugged me with, it was powerful. It took a lot to make a man forget how to stand.

When I felt comfortable walking I pushed off the bed and approached the door. There was no access rune on the inside. It was a holding cell. I examined the room again. The collar on my throat, the signs on the room surfaces, and the altar in the corner. Someone was seriously freaked.

"Hello?" I looked around, knowing there had to be some kind of view device in the room. Someone was probably watching me. "Can I get some food in here?"

No one answered. I growled under my breath and approached the altar. A small two by two rug lay before it. I knelt down and ran my fingers through the short padding. It was just thick enough to make kneeling bearable. The point was clear. They wanted me to pray. The revelation made me reassess my room. This was a holding cell, to be sure, but for what purpose? To give me a chance to cleanse myself before my trial, perhaps. Maybe that was what they wanted.

I stared at the altar for a long time, debating whether or not I should bother. Could the Emperor even hear the prayers of a person like me? I was almost afraid that He would.

The fifth day. Walking took too much effort. My body was weak with hunger and thirst. They hadn't given me a thing to eat or drink since leaving me alone in the cell. Five days without a decent meal, on top of the starvation of being on Kairn. The lack of food wasn't so bad, I had been through worse. It was the thirst that was killing me. My breath came in shallow gasps and I felt every remaining scar burning against my skin. The smoke made it worse. The oppressive fumes made it hard to sleep, and hard to focus on anything in particular. It kept me awake and in pain.

I had kept silent through the wait. My temper had subsided after a few hours of being awake the day before. Railing against my invisible jailors would get me nowhere. Instead I waited out the solitude. It was torture, sitting in the silence. If I could have slept I would have, but the fumes were too noxious. By now the smoke filled the room. I had to keep my head low to not be overwhelmed by it. Lying down would have been easier, but I was not willing to do that. Moving my limbs took effort, and if I laid down I might not be able to get myself back up to a sitting position.

To pass the time I collected my thoughts on the mission. I wished I had a way to write everything down. It would make my defense easier to orchestrate. Assuming I was given a defense. Assuming I was even brought to trial. Concentrating took near-headache levels of will to push through the incense-driven mind fog. I could only think for so long before migraines came on and I experienced something akin to panic attacks.

I didn't go near the altar once. It wasn't that I refused to pray, or that I was trying to be defiant. Something about the altar struck me as wrong. The fire should have died by now, but it ran just as strong as when it had first been installed. Something was keeping it going. That had to be part of whatever this was. I knew I should go examine the altar. I knew that I should get up and walk over to it.

Walking took too much effort.

Day Six… maybe. I couldn't tell anymore. The timepiece on the wall had been turned off. I thought it was only a day, but I faded in and out of consciousness and there was no ways to track time. It might have been a few… hours? Minutes? Nothing made sense anymore.

It hurt to open my eyes. I had fallen at some point, lying on my side with my mouth open and refusing to shut. My chest burned with each breath. By now I was pretty sure I was dying. The burning flames taunted my hunger and my fading senses. The altar had faded to a blur on the far side of the room. It might as well have been kilometers away.

Something was different about the room. I couldn't place it, but I knew something had changed. The acrid fumes were duller, less sweet. A familiar scent laced the incense with teasing familiarity. It was something I couldn't quite place. No, bread, that's what it was. It smelled like bread. Smelled like food.

I craned my neck to the side, fighting the lead weight in my muscles. The altar's flames were burning higher, burning brighter. It beckoned like a beacon in the night. Dragging myself forward, I crawled to the foot of the altar and tried to catch my breath. That simple movement, a few feet, left me heaving and gasping like a fish on land. It was all of the energy that I had. I couldn't pull myself up.

The faint crackle of the flames burning incense mocked me from above. Bread tasted so real on my tongue that I knew I was not wrong. Someone was burning bread on the altar. It was dedicated to the Emperor or whatever Saint they had decided to dedicate the altar to. Touching it was sacrilege. It was a sacrifice.

But it was food.

A little prayer worked its way through my dry throat and failed on my cracked lips. One hand crept up the altar and found something to hold on to. Sometime later I worked up the energy to pull myself up onto one side. My hand fell to the ground and I groaned. So close. The altar was only as tall as my chest. All I had to do was stand up. Get to my knees, get to my feet.

I growled as I tried to stand. Getting to my knees was easy. I screamed and raged until my arms supported my body and left me leaning against the altar. My knees ached from the simple effort of getting up. My head rested against the bottom of the altar's basin. It was cool to the touch. A soothing light flowed down through my head, easing the pain and giving me a little strength. The Emperor's blessing went so far as to the touch of his altar. That drew a bitter, cackling laugh. Now He showed His power. Could have used it a long time ago.

This new source of energy gave me the strength to stand. Gripping the altar by the basin, I pulled myself up and finally saw what had the flames of the altar burning so high. A single loaf of bread sat in the middle of the flames. The fires did not harm it, but the flames saturated the room with its wondrous smell. I stared at it for a long time.

The bread was a sacrifice. It was set upon the altar, wreathed in the incense-flames. Just out of my reach. I passed a hand over the flames. They were not hot, they weren't even warm. If I darted in I could grab the bread with only a minor burn. Then I could have food. My stomach had ceased growling a long time ago. Now it just ached, as my entire body ached. That little bit of bread would go a long way to recovering my strength.

I flicked my finger through one of the jutting flames. It was there, I felt it, but it did not burn me. Cold-fire. Incense that burned without heat. I knew of only one way that was possible, even though it should not have been. Only one world produced cold-fire incense. And it had died years ago.

I growled. Sinking to my knees, I pressed my head against the bottom of the basin and closed my eyes. The coldness was already fading, leaving me weak and helpless. I couldn't kneel on my own, I had to lean against the altar to remain upright. I knew I was only moments from falling. For the first time in a couple days, I had a clear thought.

"Damn you, Ravenor."

My veins were filled with ice. I felt it run crisply under my skin, lighting up my nerves. A thick pillow propped up my head. I remembered the contour of the bed and the patches of numb skin that marked where the tubes had been inserted. It was back. The medical equipment was back.

I tried to open my eyes but found a cloth bandage holding them shut. Restraints prevented me from reaching up and tearing it away. I took a deep breath, fighting to control my heart as it began to hammer in my chest. There wasn't a single strain of incense in the air. Had it been a dream? Had that bastard engineered some kind of hallucination?

A machine beeped to my right. Accompanying the noise came the metallic tapping of the servitor's digits. Shrill whines leapt back and forth in the room. There had to be two of them, communicating in that damned tech-speak that no ordinary human could understand. Damn machine-heads. Ravenor couldn't have at least given me something to speak to.

I swallowed and was relieved to find saliva filling my mouth. They were filling me with nutrients again, and not just enough to get me by. My fingers clenched and unclenched. Everything felt clean and healthy. The last bit of stiffness had faded from my hands. I wished I had a mirror to see if the burns were all healed.

The servitors kept their near-silent vigil for another hour. I could tell now, because on the hour a little chime rang out. I started to wonder if this was just part of another trial. Were they re-fattening me up just to starve me again? No, Ravenor was a bastard but he wasn't cruel. Everything he did had purpose. He was not one to waste time in pointless gestures. Vendettas was not his style. It was too inefficient.

But the hours stretched on without change. I lay silent on the bed and let the medicines fill me. My guardians studied their machines and did not communicate. At some point I fell to sleep on my own accord. It was a dreamless sleep. There was no fire, no incense, no room. Just pure bliss.

When I woke my eyes were uncovered. I looked around the room and took in the changes. It wasn't the same room. They had moved me to a proper medical bay. Faux-glass formed two of the sides of the room. Outside my little cubicle I saw others. Ship's crewmen sat on beds nursing typical work-related injuries and medics moved between them. For the most part they ignored my room. They seemed to be avoiding it a little too well. I wondered if the faux-glass was part reflective. Perhaps they could not see inside, or they knew better than to. I could imagine that Ravenor had placed severe censure on anyone who tried to communicate with me.

But their curious lack of attention did not extend to the giant suit of armor that stood guard over the one door out of the room. That was probably because it was not a suit of armor. It was an Astartes. A Space Marine with deep red armor marked with symbols the color of bones bleached in the desert. He grasped a powerful bolter in his hands and the green-glowing eyes slits of his helmet gazed impassively at me through the glass, unerring. I tried to look it in the visor, but something unnerved me and I had to look away. I couldn't understand the dread that chilled my spine. I was sure I didn't want to know why it did either. Space Marines had never terrified me before. I had fought alongside them several times in my career. Somehow, this one was different.

They had tasked a Space Marine to guard my room. I almost felt honored except for the uneasiness that came with that fact. Again, it reminded me that I was not among friends, or even allies. They considered me an enemy. I had no doubt in my mind that the Space Marine would kill me without a moment's hesitation if given reason. It would be ironic, I knew that. To be summarily executed by an empowered vessel of the Imperium. Just like I had done so many times.

The Space Marine remained standing there, unmoving, through his vigil. He must have called in the fact that I was awake, because sometime within the hour more observers arrived. Ravenor's force chair came first, accompanied by Harlon Nayl. The muscular ex-bounty hunter gazed at me with a determinedly blank stare. I could tell he was fighting to keep anything from showing. He had a bulky autopistol strapped to his hip. Harlon only carried a weapon when he was prepared to kill. Again, it reminded me that my position here was not a good one. The muscles in his arms bulged slightly as he put them behind his back and out of sight. They joined the Space Marine beside the door and just stared. Well, Harlon stared. Ravenor's chair had no eyes. I was sure he was trying to read me. It must have been frustrating for him, considering how he couldn't read a blank like me.

_Ordinarily not_, he corrected.

The shock of hearing a voice in my head jolted through my body. I half sat up, fighting against the restraints, and gaped at the force chair. How the frack did tha-

_I would have thought you would understand the nature of your collar. It smothers your nature, and renders you as open as any man_.

Ah hell. I groaned and fell back against the pillow. _So you're reading my mind?_

_I can. In future I will give you warning. I will not go through your mind without your permission, unless forced to._

It was a small comfort. _So what do you want?_

_To inform you of this fact. I will be speaking to you like this many times in the coming days. You should prepare yourself so that the contact does not drive you insane._

I bit back a snarl of angry laughter. _Because you would just hate that, wouldn't you?_

He did not reply.

A few minutes later two more figures joined us. I felt them coming before I saw them, and was thankful that I had a reason to think about something besides Ravenor. That relief was short-lived.

The man was a Space Marine, there was no mistaking that. His stature towered over Harlon, a large man himself, as if he were a child. He wore some of the same markings as the guard, but his armor was dark blue and he was unhelmeted. His face was chiseled like granite, and too-bright eyes transfixed me when he looked my way. His very gaze made me tremble and want to retch. I couldn't quite explain it, but there was knowledge and power hiding behind his eyes that spoke of secrets that men shouldn't know. That knowledge made him terrifying.

I realized the full extent of the collar around my throat when I felt the fury of his psychic aura come rolling into the room. It washed through the faux-glass barrier and dropped the temperature of the room by several degrees. The machines hooked to my body warbled little alarms and the servitors began thrashing about in disapproval until they adjusted for the unexpected changes. It might have been entertaining except for the way his power struck me like a force hammer.

Even muted by the collar, the Blank power remained in my core. It was a part of me, and could never be fully separated or erased. But his power tangled with it and swept it aside with gentle force that I could not resist. The icy touch of psychic presence flooded my mind and I had to scramble to throw up barriers. He picked the strongest and crumpled it with a mere twitch of thought, just to prove a point. If he had wanted to explode my head, he could have. I had never met a human with that much power. But he wasn't human, he was Astartes. He did not have the same limitations.

His presence was terrifying, but it was the woman who strode in behind him that made me really worry. A Sister Sororitas, tall and proud in her simple robes. She was old, hair whiter than even the artificial whitening that many of the Sisters undertook. Despite that she moved with surety and grace and carried herself with the authority of a Lord General. Her posture was perfect. I didn't know her, but I could tell she was the kind of woman who never had to raise her voice. Authority and respect were cloaked on that woman's shoulders just like her white satin robes. I had no idea how their rankings truly worked, but I had a feeling she was not on the same level as Sister Myrabeth had been. This woman was much more important.

Her presence was easy enough to explain. Sisters had died on Kairn. They must have sent a delegation to honor their dead. Due to the nature of the situation, I had a feeling they had sent a large delegation. This woman had to be high ranking. When she looked at me her gaze was reserved. She was not judging me yet, but she showed no inclination to give me the benefit of the doubt. The sternness of her countenance was one built from much experience. She would not be rash like Sister Myrabeth; she would be an honest judge. That did not necessarily help my case.

I doubted anything short of divine intervention from the Emperor would help me.

They watched me for some time. I stopped looking back after a minute. It only reminded me of how I was strapped to the table. From what I could tell, they were conferring about me. Throne, I wish I knew what they were saying. It scratched at my gut, not knowing anything. Their eyes were crawling over me like a lab specimen under the microscope. I felt like meat on the butcher's table. How much for a leg? An arm? The thought brought a wry grin to my lips. Frack it, they weren't go into steal all of my pride. I didn't have to mope through all of this like a pig destined for the slaughterhouse.

They must have made some decision. The door opened with a little hiss and the blue-armored Space Marine entered. His eyes rake across my face as he approached my bed. Gazing down at me, he took a light breath and passed his hand over my body. Then he dropped it to his side and turned to the servitors.

"Release him."

The servitors obeyed without a word. I did not move as they undid the bindings. Letting my body lie still, I awaited his next order.

"You have passed your first test" the Space Marine said. His deep, gravelly voice let me know that it was not a commendation. "Rise."

I sat up slowly, making no sudden moves. The chafing on my wrists was beginning to heal. These restraints had been padded. That was a nice gesture. Almost made me feel welcome here.

"Test?"

"Of two kinds. The first, of the warding runes that filled your cell. Had you been physically tainted, they would have killed you. The second was of the food on the altar. A heretic would have risked the flames to feed his belly when starving. You remained firm in your penance and let the holy sacrifice burn. Had you taken the food, we would have killed you. This was a test of your soul, to see if the taint of the world had poisoned your being."

"I'm glad to see it hadn't." I spent a glorious few seconds twisting and turning to crack the stiffness out of my limbs. "May I ask who you are, my lord?"

"I am a servant of the Emperor" the Space Marine replied. "Gabriel Heridson, Chief Librarian of the Exorcist Chapter."

"Never heard of you guys." I gave him another look. "You were there, at the end. You fought the daemon."

"I delivered the killing blow" he replied. "But I was not alone. Eight of my brothers fell slaying the daemon."

"I am sorry for your loss."

He gestured for me to follow him. I slipped off of the bed and fell into step.

"They died in service to the Emperor. Theirs was an honorable death."

"It was indeed. That thing was a bitch to kill."

"From what we gathered, you are partly responsible for the ease with which we sent it back to the Warp."

His words sent a touch of pride racing through my body, but I did not have the arrogance to pursue his statement. Nodding meekly, I strode through the door and faced the others. They stood in a rough semi-circle beside the door. Harlon refused to look me in the eye. Now that I was right in front of him his discomfort showed. He leaned against the faux-glass with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes studying an invisible speck on the floor. It was the habit of a nervous man. Harlon had never struck me as a nervous man. He clearly did not want to be here.

"How you doing, Ravenor?"

"**You have passed the first test**" Ravenor said. He spoke with his vox, and the mechanical voice sounded unnaturally loud in the medical quarters. "**Do you wish to be reminded of the charges against you**?"

"No, I remember them just fine." I shook my head before turning to the Sister. "Madam."

The Sister regarded me with a solemn expression and nodded. "Sergeant Kane. You will be required to present yourself in testimony before my Council as well. I would suggest you consecrate yourself before doing so."

"As you command, Madam." I bowed my head. I might be screwed, but I was still a soldier of the Emperor. I'd carry myself as such until they put the bolt shell through my forehead. "I trust someone will guide me there in time?"

"**Harlon will be your guard during the trial.**"

I hated how Ravenor's vox-voice gave no hint as to his mood. They had told me he communicated heavily through psychic means and only used his vox when convenient. His crew knew him well enough to understand the minute subtleties, but I didn't have a clue. Would have been nice to know what he was thinking.

"Great. It'll give us time to catch up. One henchman to another." I mustered the courage to wink at Harlon. He huffed and glanced at Ravenor as if to confirm. It showed how uncomfortable he was. They had to have talked about it beforehand; that would be why he was here. But I remembered what he thought of me. He respected us Kasrkin, borderline feared us. And I had done nothing to earn his hatred. There was obvious conflict there. Surely Ravenor understood that.

"**You should not be taking this so lightly, Sergeant Kane. Your soul hangs in the balance of these trials**."

"I just spent half of a week in hell" I growled, the mirth fading. "I watched hundreds of good men die in the worst possible ways. I saw my Inquisitor and everyone else I knew die facing daemons from the vilest corners of the Warp. The only reason I am alive is because you people brought me back, just so that you could put me on trial and execute me. I think I have a clue as to how important this is, Ravenor. Right now I'm still wondering if I should even be glad to have survived, so how about you go frack yourself, with your Flostak incense, and order someone to go ahead and put a bullet in my head. Because at the very least that would spare me from having to dwell on the deaths of so many of my friends. Or would that be too merciful?"

There was a long pause before anyone responded. Finally, the Space Marine spoke. He ordered the other one to leave and dropped a powerful hand on my shoulder. I stiffened at his touch but did not pull away.

"You have suffered. But I know you understand that everything that is to happen in the coming days is designed with purpose. This is not an execution detail, this is a trial. And as such you will be treated with the respect you deserve as a lifelong servant of the Golden Throne."

"Innocent until proven guilty?" I felt some genuine surprise. "Didn't know that any of you all believed in that."

"We are different" the Space Marine answered. "Now, I would return to my brethren. If you are done, Inquisitor, Canoness."

They voiced their assent and the imposing Librarian swept out of the medical bay. I was suddenly aware of how quiet the rest of the room was. The ship's crew were staring. A withering glare sent their eyes scurrying for cover.

"Well." I glanced back at Ravenor. "That tube-feeding was good and all, but I'm starving. Any chance I can get some real food?"

Ravenor said nothing, but Harlon pushed off the wall and motioned for me to follow.

"Come on, Kane. I'll take you to the mess hall."

Leaving the Inquisitor and the Canoness behind, we exited the room. Harlon remained to my right and slightly behind. It was a tactical position, one from which he could draw his sidearm and drill me in case I tried anything. Olds habits died hard. I tried to not be offended.

"So… been a while." I glanced back at him.

"Five years."

"Wow, that many?" I whistled. "Felt like much longer."

"A lot can happen in five years." He directed me to one of the elevators. "We haven't forgotten you though. You left quite an impression with the team."

"Yeah, I'm not known for being forgettable. Ravenor still pissed at me?"

"That'd be an understatement. You screwed us twice."

"That number's debatable for some of you." I felt a little grin coming and pushed it down. That way led to more trouble for me, and I was in enough as it was. Bringing up the scuff he and I had been in would only make everything worse. Better to stay on his good side for now.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like shit." I answered honestly. We were the only ones in the elevator. The rune Harlon pressed told me we were going to be on here for some time. So I felt safe letting out a long sigh and sinking to a sitting position. "Frack. They're all dead."

"Not all of them." Harlon held up two fingers. "Your Kasrkin buddy, Cisk. He made it though he's pretty beat up. And missing an arm."

"Yeah, I know. Lost it to a Fury or something like that." I smiled. It was comforting to know that he was alive. "He made it out?"

"Some of those Exorcists dragged him out. We nearly lost him, and he's in intensive care right now. Stable, but beat to hell. You guys went through some serious crap down there."

"Is he under trial as well?"

"He'll be tested just like you, but he's not standing accused of the murder of two Sisters."

"Good. He's been through enough. What's the prognosis?"

"Life." Harlon offered a conciliatory smile. "Gonna have an impressive battle scar to brag about."

"Yeah. He'll get all kinds of chicks with that one. But you held up two fingers. Who else?"

"I don't recognize her. She's a blonde."

"Lady Kairi?" My heart leapt at the news. Another of the gang alive. Three of us. That was a hell of a lot better than I had thought it would be. The Daemon hadn't gone easy on us. "She made it too?"

Something in Harlon's frown made me hesitate.

"Well, is she?"

"We're not exactly sure. Something happened to her down there, something really bad. I don't know all the details, but Wystan said her brain looks like it was run through a shredder. He said you might have done it."

I stared at him, not comprehending. "What do you mean?"

"He said he's seen it before. Looked like she was letting loose with her psychic powers when she was hit by a massive anti-psychic wave. Whatever it was caused massive brain hemorrhaging. Fried her brain and left her more or less brain-dead. She's on life support, but they aren't expecting her to wake up."

"Life-support." A cold shiver ran up my spine. "She's…"

"We don't know if it's recoverable. Madame Preest has her best medics working on her, and the Sisters promised to lend a complement of their best Hospitallers to see if they can save her. I don't want to lie to you, Kane. Her chances are slim."

"How slim is slim?"

"Surviving your suicide mission again?"

I cursed and looked around the elevator. "Can I see her?"

"No." He shrugged helplessly. "Ravenor's orders. You aren't allowed to see either of them for now."

"Figures. Can you at least keep me updated?"

"Sure." He smiled. "I'll make sure you are informed of any changes."

"Thanks, Harlon. You're not bad."

He tugged at his collar as if nervous. The elevator rolled to a stop and we left the elevator. It felt good to see the dozens of crew members walking about and paying me no attention. I almost felt normal again. There were plenty of people out and about. I figured it wouldn't last, so I planned on enjoying it while I could. We slipped into the food line and began the slow, methodical advance towards the chefs. The whole thing felt so serene and normal.

"How long has it been?"

"Seven days. We're still finishing recovery operations."

"Recovery?" I gazed around the mess hall. It took me a moment, but I started noticing a remarkable amount of military-style haircuts and wounded crew members. Those weren't ordinary ship's crew. "What have you been up to?"

"Survivor rescue operations. Between the Exorcists, the Sisters, and two Guard regiments, we've been locating Justicar survivors and getting them off planet. I'm not up to date on the numbers, but there are at least five thousand recovered so far."

"Five thousand… where were they? I thought they were all dead."

"On your side of the planet, maybe. The other side saw far less resistance and the Justicar forces were in better control. The Exorcists and Sisters have been checking them for taint as we pull them out. An Imperial Navy transport responded to the distress call as well; it held two regiments fresh from the tithe. They've been cutting their teeth on these search and rescue operations. Doing pretty well too, apparently. They're from some hive planet, lots of gangers and the like, so urban combat is their specialty. Been clearing out the pockets of resistance like pros."

"Damn. This news just keeps getting better." I felt honest excitement at so many saved. A lot of good Justicars had fallen around us in our pursuit of Shechem. "Anyone from our side of the planet?"

"We pulled out a handful of Justicars from the nearby area. There was a cluster of survivors outside the building we found you at. Wasn't more than fifty of them left, and most of them died from their wounds. I haven't seen a more one-sided battlefield than that, gotta tell you. There were, what, five hundred of you that assaulted that compound?"

"Closer to three."

He grunted his approval. "Well, you killed about ten times that. We couldn't even see the ground underneath all the corpses you piled up. That took some real balls to attack Shechem at his citadel."

"Took some real desperation" I corrected. "What about the Phantines. Did any of them make it?"

Judging by the way he cocked his eyebrow, the answer was no. I frowned and looked away.

"Just wishful thinking. Lord Verne had a squad of them along for the mission. They were good soldiers."

"I'm sure they were. Sorry."

"It's war. People die." The words turned to ash on my tongue and I grimaced. If anyone had deserved to live, it had been them. Those crazy sky-troopers had been key to our survival, and our breaking through. It was a tragedy that none of them had made it. Their unit needed to be told of how they had carried themselves. Certainly, they deserved to be honored for their actions. A lot of people deserved to be honored after this mess.

"We should have just bombed him from orbit" I growled. "Should have blown the city apart piece by piece until we got him. None of this was worth it."

He said nothing, but I saw his expression shift to disapproval. His eyes were drifting around the hall, searching for another topic of conversation. I considered asking him about the Space Marines. They called themselves the Exorcists. Who were they? And how had this motley array of characters all happened on Kairn at the same time? Inquisitor Ravenor, Astartes, and troop transports. Probably more out there too. I wondered if I could see the list of ships in orbit. It must be quite a show out there.

A set of the Justicars were watching me, a tableful of them. I didn't recognize any of them, but they saluted with the aquila. Their mouths moved, but they were too far away to be heard. Judging by the length they held the salute, they were muttering a prayer. I replied with a salute, and a few smiled reassuringly. At least someone was on my side.

My attention was stolen when I saw a beautiful redhead making her way through the crowd. Bright green eyes stole my breath and her innocent grin wiped the heaviness from my chest. A rush of memories and feelings broke free of the barriers I had put up so long ago. They came back and slapped me across the face so hard I started. I had just enough time to brace myself before she threw her arms around me.

"Leon, you're alive!"

"Hey, Kara." My mouth curved in a grin on its own accord. She pulled away and graced me with a ravishing smile. Her utility-bodysuit was worn and dirty and blackened at parts from grazing fire. There was a weariness in her expression that hinted at her part in the recovery efforts. Her posture was stooped and exhausted. But that didn't seem to dampen her enthusiasm. Pulling back into another hug, she stretched on her toes and planted a kiss on my cheek.

"Good to see you, Leon. It's been a long time."

"Likewise. But you haven't aged a day. You've just gotten prettier" I said. I was acutely aware of how Harlon was staring at me. He hadn't forgotten this either. And he was not exactly happy about it. "What's your secret?"

"Such a flatterer." She ran a hand across my face. A thoughtful frown eased across her face. "Damn, it's really you. I heard you were practically dead when they brought you up. Most of us went down in the second wave, after the main fighting had died down. They've done a good job patching you back up."

"That's one good thing about the Inquisition. They're just as good at healing people as they are at breaking them."

She gave a mock frown and stepped back. Her eyes traveled across to Harlon and she frowned. Something unspoken passed between them and she sighed. "I wish the circumstances were better."

"They are what they are." I took her hand in my own and squeezed. She pulled back a little too sharply. I understood and was not offended. Her initial enthusiasm for seeing me was fading, replaced by her professional instincts. It was not a good thing to be chummy with someone charged with heresy. "The charges are pretty well locked in."

Kara crossed her arms and adopted a thoughtful expression. Taking another step back, she looked from Harlon to me. The question was burning there behind her eyes.

"Go ahead and ask, Kara."

"I know it's none of my business, but I have to ask. Those charges aren't true, are they? You didn't kill the Sisters."

Her calm mask slipped and horror showed when I nodded.


	3. Flostak- The Greyworm

**Flostak, Five years ago**

"Rise and shine, slacknasty."

Leon blinked the sleep from his eyes and sat up. He checked his chrono on reflex, noting with pleasure that it read 0445. The others hadn't woken yet, except for Adin. His second-in-command was standing beside the bed with a patient expression. He held the expression pointedly, as if he were disappointed at his superior's state of sleep. Leon knew that was not the case. They were up a full half hour before they usually got up, and he had not been overly pleased with the change. Normally Leon and Adin would get up with the men, but Captain Drogtha's aide had confirmed that they were expected to come out of the Warp sometime this morning. It would be better for them to get their morning routine done early. Lord Verne would be expecting them the instant they reentered realspace.

Time to get things moving.

"You look like an Ork vomited on breakfast." Leon rolled out of bed and took a sip from his canteen. He looked around the room and noticed an empty bunk. Private Mulder. The moron must have struck lucky last night. No one else was missing, so Leon pushed the thought aside and slipped into his undershirt. Adin backed away to give him some space as he stretched the stiffness out of his limbs. He never rested well during Warp travel. Lord Verne theorized it had something to do with his being a Blank. He didn't like the Warp and the Warp didn't like him.

"Something eating you?" Adin studied him with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey. Leon paused in his stretching and asked the question to himself. A sense of unease had settled in his gut, and he did not like it. He could not think of a reason to feel uneasy. This mission, secretive as it was, could not be that bad. They were going down to a civilized world, a prominent merchant world in the subsector. If anything, it would be a boring mission.

"I'll have a talk with Selene. I think it's just travel sickness."

"You been taking those pills?"

They shared a quiet laugh. A couple of the men in their unit had been assigned travel stimulants in the past. No one ever took them. The first guy to use them had vomited up two days' worth of chow; no one had used them since. It had become a running joke between Leon and Adin and Selene. Every time they set off she demanded a list of those who might need the pill. He usually just picked names at random.

"Come on, let's get." Leon opened the hatch and stepped into the passageway. He reveled in the silence. The faintest thrum of the _Greyworm's _engines tickled his senses. One of the benefits of traveling with a Rogue Trager was that everything ran smoothly. There were no thunderous engines or the constant rattling of poorly kept machinery. "To the engines and back?"

"If you can keep up" Adin replied cheekily.

They usually waited on the others to wake up and went on a company run through the ship in the hour before the major shift change. Company was a bit of an overstatement. There were barely thirty of them left. Thirty from a company of over a hundred. Watching their numbers diminish had bothered Leon more than it should have. Most of the men had been new to the unit, fresh transfers after the bloody campaign against the Orks on Warsaw. He learned their names and their personalities just in time to watch them die fighting the ceaseless hordes of daemons and heretics that Lord Verne led them against. Lord Verne's campaigns had worn them down just as thoroughly as the front lines of a warzone. Every mission saw less men return to the barracks.

The remaining men were survivors, men with innate survival skills and quick trigger fingers. Half of them wore NCO stripes: sergeants, corporals. The rest were privates, though their low rank had nothing to do with their skills. Every single one of the soldiers in his command could outshoot, outfight, outrun, outwork any other Guardsman he had ever seen. And they would charge into Hell alongside him if he gave the order. They practically had a couple times. Lord Verne only took them to the nicest places.

He pushed all other thoughts out of his mind as they jogged through the _Greyworm's _empty passages. They encountered a couple ratings on their path. Those few that were out and about this early leapt to the side to avoid the Kasrkin, eyes daring to the bulkheads out of fear. The crew didn't like Leon's crew. Animosity between spacers and grounders stretched back thousands of years. The Kasrkin, like all of Lord Verne's crew, were outsiders. That would have been ordinarily to earn their resentment. Even the slave ratings looked down on the Kasrkin. From a safe distance, of course. Up close and personal even the officers would back down and avert their eyes.

Every sailor on the _Geryworm_ feared them. It was right that they should. Leon's men were Kasrkin, the best soldiers in the Imperium. Rogue Traders often embarked on ventures of questionable legality, and more than half the crew had dipped their toes in illegal trade. It was fear borne of paranoia. For the most part, they had nothing to worry about. Unless someone came to Leon with proof that a crewman had built a shrine to Khorne, he wouldn't have batted an eye. Such was the way of things on ships that traveled the stars, and he had more important things to do than to rail against an eternal tradition.

It did not help that they worked for an Inquisitor. As far as they were concerned, Leon and his men were fire-breathing fanatics ready to string up anyone at the drop of a hat. It was a very superstitious belief, one that Leon worked at to keep in place. Although he, nor any of his men, had ever laid hands on a crewman, his venomous glares sent the more superstitious crew members scurrying off to the chapel to beg forgiveness for their sins. Lord Verne had caught him doing it once, to an arrogant prick of a Flight Lieutenant. The Inquisitor never said a word, not even when Captain Drogtha came and privately complained about how the poor sop had gone sobbing to Father Icaru about every sin he had committed since his childhood. Lord Verne had never given them orders to be friendly.

On the third circuit through the aft engineering deck Adin touched his earpiece. Leon noted the motion and checked his as well. The soft blip in his ear warned him that he had a call waiting. Munzi's voice carried over the vox with machine-like smoothness.

"Lord Verne requests our presence. How quickly can you attend?"

Just before setting off he had gotten his voice box and left eye replaced by the planetary Mechanicus institution. It should have been a costly procedure, but services rendered by Lord Verne in the apprehension of a gang of arch-puritan thieves persuaded them to give it for free. They had not been too happy about installing such hardware into a nomadic Adept. Leon had thought they would refuse him, even with the help their team had given. But Lord Verne had a way of making things happen. Leon did not like the changes. He had never been fond of the Mechanicus or any of the nonhumans that served the God-Emperor.

He hated working alongside Munzi, and watching the Adept become more and more machine as time went on. It was horrifying to see a man so bent on losing everything that made him human.

"Understood" Leon replied. "We're finishing up a run. As soon as we're cleaned off we'll be there."

"Estimate?"

"Twenty minutes."

If he could have voiced disappointment he would have. Adepts did not have room for such petty emotions though. Instead Leon got the crisp, droning tone that came with everything Munzi said. "Make it fifteen."

"You make it fifteen" Adin growled. His earpiece must have been set to receive-only. Shooting Leon a knowing look, he smiled and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Last one back does sick call."

They sprinted through the decks in silence. Adin was the faster one. He was at least five years younger than Leon, and had fewer nagging injuries to slow him down. It was still a close race. What Leon lacked in pure speed he made up for with experience. Reading his chrono, he noted the time and checked their progress. 0554 and the Aft Engineering quarters, Third Deck. If Adin wasn't paying attention he was about to get…

One of the doors hissed open to their left and up ahead. A gaggle of female crewmembers emerged from the Head and meandered into the hallway. Adin tried to dodge to the side, but he was moving too quickly. A warning shout sent them leaping back, but he clipped one on the shoulder and they tumbled to the deck in a mess of flailing limbs and curses. Leon was only a few feet behind him, just far back enough to leap over the mess and hurtle past without breaking stride. Adin's cursing lasted just long enough for him to realize that he was tangled up with the lovely blonde Maintenance Officer he had been scoping out. Leon didn't hear what followed but it might have been an apology and an invitation to a shared meal. By that point Leon was a dozen strides down the passageway and taking his new lead for everything he had. Adin caught up quickly, tearing after him as if the hordes of Chaos lay in his wake. The Kasrkin sergeant reached the barracks and slipped in a scant three paces ahead of Adin, slamming the hatch in his face just out of friendly spite.

The hatch rang as Adin slapped it to announce his arrival. Not good enough, Leon thought with a ragged grin. His chest was heaving with exertion and that fact troubled him. It had only been about a kilometer and a half race. Sure, they had been running for almost an hour before, but this shouldn't have given him trouble. Was he really getting that old? Most soldiers got shuffled out at fifty, as soon as they passed their prime and could no longer keep up. Kasrkin averaged slightly younger, because of the higher rates of injury and death due to their harder missions. He was only in his late thirties. That should have been his prime. But twenty years in the service had left him with more scars and injuries than an gladiatorial Ogryn. It came with being a Kasrkin. He desperately hoped that he was not already getting too old for this. He owed the God-Emperor a whole lot more than a twenty-something years.

Thankfully no one noticed his difficulty recovering his breath. Most of the others were already up and in the showers. Leon looked around, saw that Private Mulder's bunk still had not been touched, and realized that he was going to have a headache. His men knew better than to miss morning muster without advanced notice. If he had not returned by now that meant he would be either passed out in some woman's bunk or in the brig. Shit.

He nodded to the third-ranking sergeant in the unit. Sergeant Rej had been in the unit the longest out of any of them. Technically, that was because Leon had been shuffled out for the Whiteshield cadre duties. The point remained, at forty-eight and sporting a bionic right leg, Rej had the best feel for the men in the unit and the uncanny ability to know exactly where every single one of them was at any given time. He was a quiet man who preferred to clean his weapons and read than to get hammered on sacra and whatever else the men could get their hands on. He was one of the few that had not visited the brig since they had come aboard the _Greyworm_ thirteen months ago. A strict disciplinarian where it mattered, Rej was the closest thing to a core that the unit had. He was as dependable as the sun rising in the sky. Leon led and inspired them, but Rej was the gel that made the parts fit.

Perhaps it had something to do with the man's miraculous ability to not get killed. At least three times on the battlefield they had watched him take an injury that would have killed any other man, but he always pulled through. His bionic leg was not the only artificial addition he had. His right lungs, his stomach, three fingers on his right hand and his eardrums had all been replaced with mechanical parts. Some of the men joked that he was more machine than human and that was what made him such a hardass.

He also had never been seen fooling around with women. When Leon had first discovered that, back when they were both Privates, he wondered if the man was a bit slanted. Time assured him that Rej was merely one of those romantic types that believed he had a special girl waiting for him somewhere in the galaxy. It was fracking cracked in Leon's opinion, but he didn't give Rej any grief. It was good for the men to have their own special thoughts. Although, Leon was curious to see if he ever did hook up with a girl, what she would look like. Knowing Rej's luck, she'd probably be some world-class contortionist with a kink for the uniform.

"How's _Cindy_ looking?"

Rej half-smiled at Leon's nickname for the lasgun. Like always, he sat at one of the desks on the opposite side from the beds. Everyone knew to give him a wide berth as he performed his morning ritual of weapon cleaning. If Rej held anything sacred, it was his lasgun. His lasgun had killed more enemies of the Imperium than a company of ordinary Guardsmen could ever hope to. Like its owner, few of the parts were original anymore. Everyone maintained their weapons thoroughly and replaced parts as needed. That was nothing special. But Rej treated his lasgun like it was a living creature. He coddled it, spoke softly to it, and sometimes Leon could have sworn that he was talking to it and it was talking back. Right now it lay disassembled in the desk, every piece laid out neatly and in order. Rej had a cleaning rag on a ramrod and was testing the barrel for decay. A jerk of his head acknowledged Leon.

"Anything to report?"

"The tech-freak came looking for you." Rej could not have sounded less interested. Most likely he had taken Munzi's interruption of his cleaning with great insult. "Told him to vox you."

"He did, thank you." Leon crossed to his locker and started digging out a fresh grey uniform. "Tell the men to be ready for a 1000 briefing. We're approaching Flostak, so things might get busy soon. Uniform casual."

"About time. We're ready to do some work." Setting his barrel down, Rej leaned back in the chair and gave him 'that' look. That confirmed Leon's worst-case suspicion about Mulder. "So… we going to talk about it?"

"How bad is it?"

He gave a noncommittal shurg. Leon waited for his assessment. Rej also had a good feel for the state of the _Greyworm's _crew.

"Private Mulder is cooling his heels in the brig. Got busted with an unauthorized trip to the medical bay. Captain has him on two charges: unsanctioned access of shipboard medical supplies and fraternization with one of the nurses. No…" Rej stared at the overhead for a moment and his brows furrowed in concentration. "Two nurses."

"Damn." Leon couldn't help but chuckle. "Think he got his money's worth?"

"With two Starboard Medical nurses?" Rej managed to keep his face straight as if he was unimpressed. He jerked his thumb towards the showers. "At least they're guaranteed to be clean. Go hit the showers, Sarge. You can take care of it later. A little more time in the brig will do him some good. Get it all out of his system on _their_ turf, not ours."

Leon had started to lose count of the charges his boys got thrown in the brig for. The men religiously believed in the lifestyle of fight hard, party harder. With their options being so limited they tended to butt against Captain Drogtha's crew. Usually it lay simply at fraternization with the women and brawling with the men. That was the easy stuff to explain and take care of. It got dicey when the men started… acquiring things. Those incidents tended to get blown out of proportion pretty quickly. Especially that one time Adin and a couple of Corporals raided the livestock hangar and stole a Grox for a barbeque. Thirteen crewmen and two Kasrkin ended up in the medical bays. To say that Captain Drogtha had been pissed off did not quite cover it.

The _Greyworm's_ Captain did not appreciate their shenanigans at all, nor did his armsmen. Leon had received numerous reprimands from the Captain and his subordinates about the Kasrkins' behavior. Each time Leon reminded them of how they repelled the Ork boarding party last year. It shut them up just long enough for the next soldier to get into trouble. In the recent months Leon had noticed that Captain Drogtha's patience was beginning to wear however. Eventually things would come to a head and something would have to give.

Leon was not afraid of that day. He had heard rumors that Lord Verne had some secret stash somewhere, someplace with a mansion and a personal starship and all kinds of other wonderful things. Leon often wondered if the rumors were just that. Lord Verne did not strike him as the man to hold onto material things like that. The very reason they travelled on the _Greyworm_ was because it was subtle and he did not have to keep track of it.

Nodding to Rej, he headed for the hatch and the showers. "I'll see if Lord Verne can give me access to the Captain and get it sorted out."

Leon knew how it would go. Lord Verne would get him an audience and he would go fawn over the Captain as if he was the Emperor's last gift to mankind. A few minutes of buttering him up, a few carefully measured reminders about Lord Verne's authority, and a promise to knock some heads about would get Mulder out of the brig. And then Leon would go beat the hell out of him for being clumsy enough to get caught. Everyone lost, but it was better than having Mulder stew in a cell for Throne knew how long. If no one challenged him he would let Mulder sit in the brig until Hell froze over. He was sort of petty that way.

Entering the Head, Leon tossed his uniform on the bench and started stripping. None of the ship's crew used this Head. They were too scared of the Kasrkin. Leon and his men didn't complain. The lines were always short. Halfway through his shower the doors opened and the only non-Kasrkin that used their Head walked in.

Sune Warchild was a barbarian from some winter-planet that Leon had never heard of and didn't care to find out about. He was a giant of a man, standing a full head-and-a-half over them all and built more like an Astartes than an ordinary human. His service to Lord Verne predated theirs, and the many scars that decorated his body bore testament to his survivability. Unlike the Kasrkin, he went into battle lightly armored and fought with a massive warhammer. It was a gift from Lord Verne when his tribal hammer shattered, embedded deep in the chest of an Iron Warrior. The man's fighting ability was the stuff legends were made of. He had the strength of a Space Marine and almost the same agility.

Striding through the showers without a care to the numerous stares that followed him, he took the slot beside Leon and began washing the oil and grease out of his long, reddish-brown hair. He wore it long and wild, though his beard was relatively well-trimmed. The man took great care of his hair. It was probably the only part of him that saw regular maintenance. For a barbarian he took pretty good care of himself, but men like Sune attracted dirt like magnets.

"A fair morning" Leon said. Sune grunted something in his native tongue. "You excited to hit the surface?"

He gazed at Leon and said nothing. Leon had learned to ignore the man's intense gazes. Most would have thought it awkward to have a large man stare them down in the showers. Sune meant nothing by it. He was one of those odd, simple giants. Not at all innocent, but he handled life on basic levels. The most philosophical Sune got was when Lord Verne told him to "kill that one" and he asked "now or later?"

"Lord says Sune is to go with him to the metal-world. We will find glory there."

It took Leon a moment to translate the statement into something understandable. Lord… Verne, of course. Metal-world… Flostak was a hive planet with plenty of cities and factories. For a barbarian, the place undoubtedly seemed very foreign and strange. He probably didn't know any of those fancy words like "factory" or "palace" anyways.

"That so?" Leon feigned ignorance. "I bet you're happy to put some dirt under your feet."

"Sune would like that as well."

Some of the others started chuckling to the side. They shut up when the barbarian turned their way. Leon shot them a warning glance behind the man's back. In an instant they were all busy staring at the bulkheads or heading out of the showers to towel off. Sune glared after them for a moment before returning to his own cleaning.

"I heard you've got some big news, Sune. Boudi said it's your lifeday today." Leon hoped that would get the barbarian off the topic of his men. It did. Sune nodded gravely, as if Leon had asked whether or not his parents had been killed.

"Boudi speaks the truth. It is Sune's twenty fourth."

The barbarian's lack of interest showed. He finished washing himself down and stepped out towards the lockers. Sune never bothered with towels, he just threw his clothes on even though he was soaking wet. Probably because he was afraid the rubbing would wipe away the intricate tribal tattoos that identified his clan. Boudi knew him better than anyone, and said those tattoos were some kind of sacred marking. Some superstitious Emperor-worship practiced among his people. They believed that the Emperor blessed them through their tattoos. Leon would have thought it utterly silly had he not seen firsthand how powerful and unkillable Sune was. He had no trouble believing that some higher power wanted Sune to stay alive for a while longer.

"Want me to get you anything, for your lifeday?"

He called out only half-serious, knowing the answer. Sune grunted dismissively and stalked out of the Head. No one could call Sune a hoarder. Leon had not been in his room often, but it always amazed him how little the man owned. He had three sets of clothes and trophies, and that was about it. He packed even less than they did.

Adin drew his attention with a soft laugh. "Throne bless that man. Can you imagine what the Guard will look like when his planet has enough people to hold its own Founding? Frack, that'd be the day. An entire regiment of those sods would make an Ork warboss shit itself."

The image made Leon smile. He got back to the barracks and into his clean, neatly pressed uniform with four minutes to spare. The invitation had been for him only so he left the barracks in Adin's charge and set out for the Inquisitor's chambers. It was a short hike across the _Greyworm's_ decks. Lord Verne's room lay midway between the bridge and the hangars. He preferred it that way, so that he could access any portion of the ship quickly. It was also not where the _Greyworm's_ lavish VIP quarters were either. Captain Drogtha had been horrified at first when Lord Verne chose the simple room-and-office combination over the suite, but Lord Verne did not want a large sign hanging over the place where he slept. The _Greyworm_ had a large crew and he had many enemies. A well-trained assassin would go for the guest quarters first. It wasn't that he expected someone on Captain Drogtha's crew to try and kill him, he just had a healthy survival instinct. Nothing marked the door to his quarters. It was entirely forgettable, and that was the point.

He arrived one minute late. Leon ignored the four sets of eyes that were watching him and sat down in one of the chairs around the table that they had so often used. Everyone had their assigned seat, more or less. He had purposely sat in the one next to where he usually sat. It was a deliberate choice that told the others he could not have cared less about being the last one in. He often was because, in his humble opinion, he had a lot more to do on the boat. The others only had to worry about themselves. He had a whole platoon's worth of Kasrkin to keep track of. His duty to his men took up a good deal of time.

Lord Verne glanced up from his dataslate. His eyes flicked across the assembled faces as if counting them. Leon knew that was not the case. The Inquisitor would have picked up his Null presence from two passages down, and the others had obviously been here for a few minutes. No, the Inquisitor was deciding something. That was never good. If he still had decisions to make as the meeting began then this operation had to be more important than it looked.

He read something on the dataslate one more time before setting it down and calling their attention. He acknowledged Leon with a curt nod, not quite conveying irritation at his tardiness. If he had any opinion of how long it took Leon to arrive he kept it to himself though.

"Our anonymous source on Flostak has come through once again" Lord Verne announced. He typed in a few commands and text scrolled onto the datareaders in front of each seat. Leon held off from looking at it just yet. He wanted to know what the Inquisitor had to say first. Reading it now would only distract him.

"This accusation has moved beyond simple suspicion and finger-pointing. Before you are two sets of record books for the Junta Cartel. Their official book, reported to the proper authorities every year for taxation, and an altered book with more than a few discrepancies. This information cannot be acquired easily, and I feel confident that our contact put himself at great risk to gather this for us. The encryption guarding this data burnt one of the _Greyworm's_ astropaths."

He stopped for a moment to let that sink in. Atropaths didn't just up and die when receiving messages across the Warp. Leon tried to guess the security levels on the data and came up with nothing. On a military scale, it had to be Verdant-equivalent. Large Cartels would have that, he surmised.

"This is being kept under very tight security" Lord Verne said after an appropriate time. "And with good reason. As you can see there is a cumulative 3.2% discrepancy between reported Yield & Profits for the past several decades. That number had been growing in the recent decade, from 2% to 3.2%. Boudi will run the numbers again to be sure, but Captain Drogtha confirmed the security codes protecting these records. They are genuine Junta Cartel signatures and this is a genuine Junta Cartel accounting book."

Leon dragged every scrap of financial knowledge that he had to the forefront of his mind. He felt a solid twinge of disappointment. This was a lousy sniffer job. They would probably see no combat, which meant that he and his men would spend their stay on the _Greyworm_. All of this over a 3.2% accounting differential. 2% would have been basic corruption, maybe some smuggling rackets. That would be Justicar-worthy, not nearly important enough to drag in the Inquisition. 3.2% could draw eyebrows, but even that should not have garnered the attention of an Inquisitor. He skimmed the report and keyed the name of the Cartel.

Junta. The largest Cartel in the subsector. Their net worth was estimated in the same realm as subsector governments and rogue traders. They had major trading posts on thirty worlds, with presence on another hundred and fifteen. Primary market was religious iconography and supplies, but like any good Cartel they had their hands in just about every market they could access. They dealt in civilian weapons, processed foods, and a hundred other sectors. This Cartel had over five million employees registered, with probably another five million unaccounted for.

The numbers sank in quickly. Leon sucked in a breath and considered the potential of what they were about to look into. This wasn't just any regular Cartel. The Junta Cartel could give Flostak's PDF a run for their money. Cartels did not get this large and extensive without plenty of underhanded dealings. There would be trouble on this investigation. Suddenly, he was thinking less about this being a lazy job and more about it being too big for them. Their team might not be able to handle something this farspread.

Boudi did not share his worry. Bright eyes sparkled intensely as Boudi devoured the numbers on the datareader. Leon had known the androgynous youth for half a year now, and he still didn't know if Boudi was male or female. Hell, Boudi spent so much time around machines Leon would not have been surprised to find out Buodi was a genderless servitor clone or some vat-grown nonsense like that. What he did know was that Boudi had a brain that rivaled a ship's computer, and never forgot anything. Not even the number of freckles on Selene's nose.

"This will be a covert investigation" Lord Verne was saying. Leon willed himself to pay attention despite the misgivings that were rising to the surface. "We will look into the Junta Cartel from the shadows. That means operational security is going to be paramount." He gazed directly at Leon. "I assume you and your men know how to keep a low profile."

Leon shrugged, fighting the urge to be offended at the Inquisitor's singling him out. The Inquisitor had a legitimate reason to ask him in particular. His Kasrkin contingent had never been through an extended non-combat operation before. In the past Lord Verne had used them for precisely what they had been bred to do: kill the enemies of Mankind. Kasrkin spent their whole lives training how to kill on the battlefield. That upbringing made them gruff, abrasive, aggressive, and intolerant of situations where the lines were purposefully blurred. None of those qualities made for good spies. They didn't play the civilian card well.

After considering the men under his command he gave Lord Verne the most polite answer he could manage. "Thirty military types aren't exactly subtle, Lord Verne."

"I will only need three" Lord Verne said. "Yourself and two of your men for now. Pick two that are least likely to blow this operation, and make sure that you can trust them to obey any order they are given, regardless of whether they like it. If the situation becomes dire, then rest assured that your whole team will be called in to demonstrate your expertise in less-clandestine affairs."

Reading between the lines of his words told everyone in the room that Lord Verne expected this investigation to end in bloodshed. Leon snuck a look at the others and watched them react. Selene adjusted her balance on her seat, shoulders drooping faintly in exasperation. Boudi did not register the comment at all; the youth had its nose buried in the datareader. Sune's mouth curled in a sneer at the thought of getting to kill something. And Munzi just stared passively ahead.

He realized Lord Verne was waiting for him to say something.

"Three can work" Leon assured the Inquisitor. "Myself, Cisk, and Mulder."

The Inquisitor nodded in confirmation. "As long as is possible, I do not want to alert the planetary authorities that we are here. This means our first priority on the surface will be to establish a safe house. Selene, Sun, Boudi, that will be your job. Sergeant Kane and his men will accompany me to get a feel for the layout of the hive. I understand that this is a realm in which several of you have little experience. I know that you will be able to adapt admirably."

"Lord Verne?" Boudi raised a hand. He motioned for the youth to speak. "Is this investigation limited to the Cartel, or do we have reason to think it is more far spread? I would like to compare this to some of the planetary bureaucracies, see if this is a conspiracy."

"Do you see anything that leads that way?"

"I won't know until I get a better look." Boudi leaned back in the chair and yawned. "But someone's got to be greasing palms to allow for this. Corruption is not a lonely man."

"Very well." Lord Verne tipped his head. "Right now we are operating on the assumption that this is contained to the Cartel. However, experience warns us that heresy has deep and complicated roots. That is why I want to avoid alerting the planetary authorities to our presence. We will need a free hand to deal with this. Once we establish ourselves, we will see about getting you that access."

"Beg pardon, Lord Verne." Leon did not flinch at the withering gaze the Inquisitor directed his way. "But why exactly are we looking into accounting issues? I understand that severity of what we could be facing here, but shouldn't the Arbites, or even the PDF, be investigating this? Or something larger, like a Space Marine task force? We're looking at an organization with millions of employees. When did this become an Ordo Malleus problem?"

"This became an Ordo Malleus _problem_," Lord Verne managed to parrot the phrase in such a way as to make it sound utterly ridiculous. "When the accounts belonged to a powerful Cartel that trades in sacred religious resources. Flostak incense is renowned through the sector for its unique properties. Have you heard of cold-fire incense, Kasrkin? It is as simple as it sounds: fire that does not burn. But it is also known to give the devout prophetic visions, and this has made it a very sought after commodity among the sector's Ecclesiarch. They have put a great deal of effort into monopolizing the trade of cold-fire incense to prevent it from finding use in the hands of heretics and traitors. If the Junta Cartel is playing the market, conspiring against the Ecclesiarch's trade contracts, then this 3.2% accounting discrepancy could have far-reaching implications. Could you imagine, Kasrkin, what would happen if some godless cult acquired the ability to predict future events? The damage they could wreak through the sector would be enormous, and untraceable."

Leon nodded, mouth clamped firmly shut. He understood those implications just fine.

"The sector regards cold-fire incense as special evidence of the Emperor's favor." Lord Verne typed in a few commands and a chart rose from the center holoprojector. It showed the entire sector, with Flostak highlighted and dozens of golden paths stretching out to the other worlds. Those would be the trade routes, the paths taken by vessels bearing the incense to sector worlds. "This is not just accounting, Kasrkin. This is a religious matter as well. When the time becomes appropriate we will include the Ecclesiarch, but only when it is appropriate. Shameful as it is, even the Emperor's priesthood is fallible. If the Junta Cartel is double-dealing in the incense trade, it is entirely possible that we could be facing corruption within the Ecclesiarchy."

Selene made a noise that could have been a sigh. She knew what Lord Verne was speaking of too well. Her med-clinic on Vernan had been shut down by a slimeball Cardinal whose secret dealings included running a pharmaceutical smuggling ring. That had been a few months before Lord Verne recruited Leon's team. She still had burn scars down the length of her leg from the raid on her med-clinic that Lord Verne had dragged her out of. It had been her choice to leave the scars. With her skill she could have easily made it go away. She chose to let it serve as a reminder of why she fought. Inquisition teams did a lot of nasty work over time. The scars served as her anchor.

Her sigh drew a slight pause from Lord Verne, but he continued on. "This 3.2% accounts for several trillion credits a year. That is enough to supply all manner of schemes. And the Junta Cartel has a history of dealing in unsavory business ventures that are questionably legal, if even that. The incense trade makes the majority of their profits, but high-ranking Cartel officials have been known to play a loose hand with the blessed Ecclesiarchy's restricted artifact regulations. I am talking about traffic in xenos artifacts, in case you are not sure what that means. Xenos weapons and technology."

Leon took a slow breath. The pieces were falling into place. They were going after a subsector Cartel the size of a planet's PDF, potentially dealing in xenotech and hallucinogenic incense. If they were dealing in xenotech then there was a solid bet they were holding some of the best gear for their own use as well. He had a gut feeling that they would be facing cretins with xenotech. The thought made his palms itch. This plan had all the signs of a suicide run. That was Lord Verne's favorite style.

"But I am sure you can imagine just how much damage can be done with several trillion credits being shuffled to such sordid business dealings. If they are building or supplying an army with xenotech, all of Flostak could be in peril. They could be planning a coup, or something far more sinister."

Sune growled in his chair. His hackles rose visibly at the mention of xenotech. Call him a simpleton and superstitious, but Sune might have been the most devout believer in the room. It was odd that way. Leon had grown up in the Schola Progenium, where Emperor-worship was ingrained into their very bone marrow. Lord Verne was not the most puritan of Inquisitors, but his life mission was to root out heresy and he took great pleasure in executing heathens. Munzi was… well, he was from some offshoot of the Adeptus Mechanicus. They were devout in their own way. Though the whole Machine God aspect did not quite qualify along the same lines, it was close enough. Boudi was almost as devout to the Mechanicus ideals, though Boudi didn't quite worship the Machine God. Boudi could always be found in the ship's chapel when Boudi wasn't working in engineering or the workshops. And Selene did not always show her religion, but that woman knew more prayers than most priests. This crew was about as religious as it got.

"So we should be prepared to deal with xenos weapons." Leon crossed his arms over his chest. "Bugger."

"Cheer up, we could be fighting Eldar" Boudi said, giving that smart-alecky grin that always came whenever Boudi wanted to remind them how things could be worse. Jinxed them every single time, but it never stopped Boudi from doing it. Leon spat a curse and glared at the youth.

"And he says Sune is superstitious." Boudi giggled and nudged Selene, who wore her patient expression like she always did when dealing with Boudi. She was the only one of them who never rose to the bait. "You'd think he was scared of those ballerinas or something. Think we should start calling him Sergean-"

"That is enough, Boudi."

Selene could shut the youth down with those four words, and she always did. Boudi's grin faltered and faded to a frown. Squirming in sudden discomfort, Boudi mumbled something about being sorry. Boudi wasn't. Everyone knew that, but at least the youth would be quiet for a while.

"Are you done?" Lord Verne's impatience could be felt in the air. "Very well. Captain Drogtha is putting the finishing touches on briefing packets that will be sent to your datareaders. We will be setting off in six hours. Until then, prepare yourselves. Once we go down we will not be coming back up, so pack the necessities. Sune, gather the security containers. We should be able to land in a private hangar, but there is no telling if we will run into security scanners. I want everything we bring down to be invisible. Boudi, communications equipment. Selene, food and medical reserves. Don't skimp. Munzi, I want you to hack the Cartel network and get us every access code you can find. I don't care if it gets us access to a waste disposal room with man-eating tentacle monsters; if it exists I want it. Get us everything you can from the _Greyworm_."

They voiced their assent and rose to leave. The Inquisitor called for Leon to wait behind. He was already planning on it, but Lord Verne's tone gave him warning that he was about to eat a shitstorm. At least Selene had the sense of mind to offer a concerned frown before stepping out. He could read it in her eyes. _Good luck_.

"Lord Verne?" Leon chose to stand. It was more respectful and he had a very clear feeling that he would need to brace himself. Better to take this standing than sitting.

"Captain Drogtha approached me with news that yet another one of your Kasrkin is in the brig." Lord Verne's eyes flashed dangerously. "This is not the first time that I have told you to get your men under control. It is too common an occurrence for me to ignore. Your crew is the source of seventy percent of the disciplinary incidents on board the _Greyworm_. That reflects poorly on me, Sergeant. I am not fond of having to apologize to a ship-captain."

"With respect, Lord Verne." Leon knew he was taking a huge chance in addressing the Inquisitor so bluntly. People didn't get away with talking back very often. Not without serious consequences. "What do you expect? There's thirty of us left, sir. Thirty out of the hundred and seven that first came on the_ Greyworm_ thirteen months ago. Seven out of ten of us are gone. Add in that these men spend almost their entire time on this floating tin-bucket, the only time they leave being to drop to the surface of a world that wants to kill them any way it can. Add in that we're stuck in a _civilian_ vessel, with no Commissars or officers to patrol the halls and no military structure. Add in that they haven't had shore leave in thirteen months. Add in tha-"

"Do I look like I care?" The sharpness of his voice shut Leon up. The Kasrkin took a deep breath, the only sign he would allow that he was nervous before the Inquisitor. It was hard not to be. Lord Verne had a thing for summary executions. Leon had carried out many of them, though the Inquisitor preferred to do them himself. There were rumors that he had once been a Commissar before joining the Ordo. It would not surprise Leon if he discovered that to be true. "Your men are supposed to be professionals."

"Professionals that sit in the same damn barracks every day with no change of scenery. We're soldiers, Lord Verne. We don't mind the fighting. Hell, we don't mind the casualties either because that's part of our job. But this lack of action is killing them. They need something to do to keep them busy or they'll go stir-crazy. We reached our limit months ago, and all things considering they're doing a damn good job holding it together. Something has to give, Sir. Once this thing is over just give them a day or two of shore leave. Twenty hour hours on the surface, with the chance to grab some swill and a gal that won't get them in trouble will do wonders. I promise you that wouldn't regret it."

"Do you think this is a cruise line, Kasrkin?"

"I think it's a ship without military restrictions, with more available women than my men can shake their sticks at. When you're stuck with a bunch of military men for months on end, they get randy. These women aren't exactly shutting them down either. You should see how they flirt in the weight room. It's a powder keg, I will give you that. But the blame isn't solely on my men. Shore leave, sir. That's what they need. It'll solve all of your problems."

Lord Verne sighed heavily. He shoved an accusing finger directly in Leon's face. "Captain Drogtha thinks otherwise, Sergeant. He doesn't agree that your men are not at fault, and neither do most of his male crew members. Regardless of who is in the wrong, I want you to put a stop to it. If you do, I might consider allowing your men some shore leave. Flostak is currently hosting ten regiments of Guardsmen that are fresh off the frontlines of a campaign in the Scarus Sector. I am sure your men could slip in relatively unnoticed once we finish our business there."

"Thank you, sir." Leon straightened a little. "It'll do a lot of their morale to hear it. Will that be all?"

"No, it won't be. I also want you to start leading by example." His tone hardened again. "Your… liaising with Captain Drogtha's aide needs end, effective immediately. Captain Drogtha has turned a blind eye to your fraternization only because he trusts your discretion and your ability to not cause trouble, but if word reaches her House there will be hell to pay, and I am not of the mind to hold feud against one of the Eight Houses of Sicarmo."

A frown cut through Leon's blank expression. "She's a princess?" His frown turned more towards a grin. "Well, frack me."

"Beside the point" Lord Verne snapped. "I want your word that you will not see her again."

Leon hesitated for a long moment, weighing the backlash. Not only would he lose the feisty aide's pleasurable company, but he would lose his insider track to what was going on in the ship. She was one of those types that loved to gossip and include others in confidential matters. At first he had thought she was merely trying to make herself more interesting, but with the revelation she was a noble it made more sense. She had grown up with political intrigue as the norm.

It was going to be a blow, but one he could recover from. She wasn't _that_ special.

"Done" he said, finally. "Already forgotten her name."

The Inquisitor stared at him for a few seconds longer, expression unreadable. At last he turned back to the datareader. "As far as your Private Mulder is concerned, he will be released before we go down to Flostak. I already spoke to Captain Drogtha regarding his punishment. It appears that your Private made off with the wrong pharmaceuticals. Instead of those opiates that your men are so fond of stealing, he ingested muscle relaxers. Combat-strength too, so he has been having quite a painful time in the latrine."

Leon chuckled once before regaining his composure. "Serves him right, Sir."

"Indeed it does." The humor did not appear to affect the Inquisitor. "I hope this serves as a warning to the rest of your men. Who are you leaving in charge while we are on the surface?"

"Sergeant Rej, Sir. You won't have any worries. He'll keep the men out of trouble."

"I will hold you to that, Sergeant." Lord Verne motioned towards the data readers. "Now, I have something for you to do before we leave. Sune is gathering the security containers, but I want you to collect us an arsenal. We will need mostly covert weapons, things that cannot be traced. Captain Drogtha has agreed to open his armory, and I have been told that your men have acquired a rather unique arsenal over the past year."

"We have collected some spoils, yes Sir." Leon shrugged. "We'll go through them and see what we can use."

"The more unconventional our gear is, the lower our chances of being identified. If possible, I want our team to have the signature of a rival gang or Cartel. Can you do that?"

"Does that mean no hotshots?" Leon already knew the answer.

"Only if we need to call in your whole force."

"Understood."

"You will have two containers worth of space. Now, is there anything you would like to discuss?"

"Do you want us to pack our armor? Are we going down armored or plainclothes?"

"I had Captain Drogtha scrounge up some appropriate clothing. You may bring your full combat gear in storage. But in public, you will be dressed as civilian bodyguards. He has a few sets of riot armor that appear generic enough to not draw suspicion. It will not hold up like your carapace, but it will stop common weapon fire."

"As long as it's armored." Leon had an idea to what this armor was that Lord Verne had mentioned. He had seen them a couple times in passing when going through the ship's armory. They were old pieces, dusty and battle-scarred. Hopefully they performed better than they looked.

"It will not stand up to combat like your carapace, but Captain Drogtha has assured me that you will be well-protected from small arms fire. That will be all, Sergeant."

Leon nodded and saluted. Lord Verne returned the salute and dismissed him. Selene stood waiting for him outside the door. It amazed Leon sometimes that she was still working for Lord Verne. The medicae was several years past her prime, with silvery-grey hair and the haggard face of an overworked and undernourished elderly refugee. She had been steadily losing weight in the past thirteen months, and Leon had the suspicion that she was not telling them something. He had pegged it as some kind of cancer. It must be really bad if she hadn't gotten it fixed. Lord Verne probably knew about it. He had a good handle on all of them, and Selene was not the type to lie to him anyway. She was the closest to a friend that he had.

Were she anyone else Leon might have confronted her about her mysterious possible-illness. It did not sit well with him to know that someone who he would have to rely on was hiding a sickness that was clearly effecting her. Weak links got people killed. Leon trusted Selene though. Considering how many times she had patched everyone up, she had earned the right to a little privacy. And she wasn't stubborn enough to let her condition, whatever it was, endanger the team. If things got so bad she could not function, she would give them plenty of warning.

"Doc."

"Leon." Her head tipped slightly in acknowledgement. She fell in step beside him and they walked through the halls. There were only a few others up and about. Most everyone on the crew was ether sleeping or at their posts by now. The medicae was watching him. "You are prepared for this venture?"

"As prepared as I can be." Leon shrugged. "It's gonna be rough. Did you read the numbers on the Junta? They've got to have some serious security, and probably a hundred or more assassin types working for them. We're kicking one hell of a hornet's nest, Doc."

"Oh, you sound worried." She smiled. "Have faith, Leon. The Emperor will protect us."

"I know He will" Leon replied. "But his definition of protect isn't quite the same as ours. I'm not a big fan of this whole martyr business just yet."

She chuckled and pulled him to the left when they hit the intersection that led to the Kasrkin barracks. Leon recognized the route she was taking him on and made no move to break free of her. For an elderly woman she had a firm grip. They entered the ship's chapel and approached the priest.

The _Greyworm_ was a very unique vessel. Drogtha was a Rogue Trader, but he operated out of a single ship and preferred a carefree, in-the-wind style of business than the massive trade fleets that some of the richer Rogue Traders surrounded themselves with. He had about a half-dozen traders contracted under him, but he kept his personal operations confined to the _Greyworm_. It was his ancestral ship, and had survived more trouble than an Astartes battle cruiser. It had been built long ago, perhaps even back in the day when the Emperor Himself led the Crusades. As such it was equipped with a full chapel, had access to both Adeptus Mechanicus and Ecclesiarch services, bore two small lance batteries for defense, and carried a three-person astropathic choir complete with a consecrated handler. Leon often wondered at how they were to have access to such things. The one thing he hated more than being stuck on a ship was being stuck on a ship that he knew nothing about. Thirteen months and he still knew next to nothing about the origin of the ship, or the many more secrets onboard that he knew Captain Drogtha was hiding from them. The subtle opulence of the vessel reminded him of how connected Captain Drogtha was, even with the constant self-depreciation that man insisted on. He brushed off his business as if he were some lowly tradesman who barely got by, but Leon knew he had a vault hidden somewhere in the bowels of the _Greyworm_ that housed untold riches.

The chapel was the thing that really got him. It had a grand and beautiful setting for a ship's chapel, with murals decorating the walls, ornate incense burners hanging from the rafters and an era-original manuscript of the Psalms of Saint Sabbat. Even Rogue Traders had a hard time getting access to such holy relics. Such a thing did not go unattended, even with Captain Drogtha's status, and an Ecclesiarch representative lived on the _Greyworm_ at all times to care for it and the chapel.

The current priest, a middle-aged and gaunt man named Icaru, greeted them with a solemn nod. Both of them had spent many hours in the chapel, and he did not bother asking them to perform the rites of appeal before approaching the front pew. They knelt before the gold statue of Saint Sabbat and whispered their prayers. Icaru watched them approvingly, and when they finished he motioned for them to take their seats. Leon sat quietly, waiting for Selene to speak. The chapel was the closest thing to a safe room that the _Greyworm_ had. It was the only place guaranteed to not have surveillance devices installed, and Icaru had a great deal of wisdom for one of his age. He normally felt safe here, but not today.

Icaru was not quite ready to speak to them yet. His bushy, braided beard had gotten longer since Leon had last been in. It had grown so long he had tucked it in his belt to avoid tripping on it while performing his daily ministrations. That brought a hint of a smile to his lips as he watched the priest refill the incense-burners. Something about the flames struck him as a little odd. They were different today, a dark blue color when normally they burned pale and amber. Icaru switched incenses? Kane knew he shouldn't worry about that, but he was a little out of sorts and the thought nagged at him. He stared for a moment before giving up. He didn't know enough about incense to tell the difference.

"You are limping" Selene noted. Leon glanced down at his foot. He couldn't feel anything out of the ordinary with it: no pain, no stiffness, no itch. It felt just fine.

"Am I?"

"It is very faint" she assured him. "The others would not be able to tell, but I have enough experience with old injuries to know when you are favoring your left side."

Leon considered taking his boot off to check, but decided against it. Icaru would throw a fit. That was something to be looked at in the medical bay, and if Selene had taken him here instead then the limp wasn't drawing any concern. She was right, it was an old injury. An Ork grenade had mauled his foot two years ago. Warsaw. He fought the urge to shudder as his mind wandered back to that mission. That was where he had first met Lord Verne. They had spent a whole month behind Ork lines, fighting guerrilla-style against Warboss Smash'um and the Iron Warriors Traitor Astartes. The Imperial army was retreating to buy time enough to muster an offensive. The chokepoint of the strategic withdrawal had been First Hive West-East. It had been the lynchpin of the operation, but the Orks were right on their ass as they had evacuated to the eastern half of the city.

That was where Leon and his men had been, holding the rearguard while the civilians flocked to safety behind Imperial lines. Their unit had been cut off when a PDF General panicked and blew the bridges connecting First Hive West to First Hive East four hours before he was supposed to. Two hundred Kasrkin, four hundred Volpone Bluebloods, and five thousand civilians had been left behind. It had been twenty nine days of the most horrific urban warfare he had ever seen. Starving civilians attacking Orks with their bare hands, booby-trapping every corpse with overcharged lasgun packs or grenades, bayonet charges against Nobz and Gretchen mobs. Not many had survived. It had been his first mission back with Kasrkin after the disastrous last stand his Whiteshield company had taken part in on Cadia. His life seemed to hold more than a fair number of disastrous operations.

He didn't want to think about any of that right now.

"You brought me in here for a reason?"

Her smile widened a touch and he was reminded of a mother watching her child. Selene had that effect on people. She had that ability to make people feel that they needed to listen and that she knew what would make them better. It amazed Leon that she had no children herself. She would have been a damn good mother.

"You have been… off balance recently. I am not the only one to notice it. Something is bothering you, Leon. What is it?"

Leon glanced around the room before answering. He knew that they were alone with Icaru, but it paid to be cautious. It was no secret that Captain Drogtha spied on them, just as it was no secret that Lord Verne had issued standing orders to spy on the Rogue Trader. No one trusted anyone on the Greyworm. Icaru was just finishing his work, and would join them shortly.

"I've been… I don't know. Honestly, I can't place it. I know I've not been at my A-game recently but there hasn't been anything in particular I can point to. It's just a feeling."

She nodded slowly and looked over to Icaru. The priest approached them with a brass pitcher and three cups. They accepted the offered wine and sipped at it. It was hot and tasted like cinnamon. Leon savored the taste and felt his spirits lift a little. Icaru was not one of those strict priests that dieted on water and bread, but he didn't spoil himself. Wine was his only vice, and as such his collection of spirits was very eclectic and exceptionally good. When Icaru offered wine, no one refused.

"Do you think it is merely restlessness before this venture?" His voice rolled across the distance between them like a charging bull. He was a very loud man, not given to whispering. Icaru claimed that when men only spoke in quiet when they knew they were in the wrong. Leon did not quite buy into that, but he had to admit that the priest had very clear lines of right and wrong. It was good to have someone on the ship who believed so firmly in absolute morality.

"No. I've seen a lot worse."

"But nothing like this" Icaru mused. His eyes were half-closed as he watched them. "You have lived a life on the front line. This will be a mission for the subtle, for non-soldiers."

"How do you know?"

He offered a self-depreciating smile. "I can put two-and-two together, Sergeant Kane. Flostak is not an enemy warzone, at least last time I checked. Lord Verne must have you doing something clandestine. I do not want to know what it is, so don't tell me. But, whatever your purpose is down there, I am confident that you will do just fine. You are a devout man, Sergeant. The Emperor smiles on devout men."

"That may be it" Leon agreed. "This isn't my cup of caf. The Schola never trained us to be political animals. Those were the Commissars."

"But you are here, not a Commissar. Lord Verne knows what he is doing. Trust in him, if you can't trust in yourself."

"Yeah." Leon leaned back in his seat. "Even though he's the most untrustworthy man I know.**"**

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**BIBOTOT: Thank you for pointing out the number issue there. I missed a zero when I was editing the chapter somehow, it was supposed to be 400,000. I went back and fiddled with the numbers, also checked up on ship capacities through 40k resources. The final count (and is now updated in Chp 1) got bumped up to 6 carriers, 400,000 plus a strike cruiser. From reading the specs on 40k ships, I felt this is justified considering that cruisers can hold up to 100,000 men and most Chaos ships don't operate their ships as neatly as the Imperial Navy does. Assuming their original intent was to banzai charge Cadia and dump tons of troops on the surface, they could have done away with supply cargo and stuffed in extra troops as well. I figured 400,000 out of 600,000+ possibles is not too far off the mark, especially if they managed to start corrupting the local populations.**


	4. Hinterlight - Interview with a Sister

**Hinterlight**

I stared at the ceiling, counting each breath as I waited for something to happen. Harlon had escorted me into the room an hour ago. The room contained nothing but a simple metal table and two chairs. It was the most old-school of interrogation setups. Eventually someone, probably the "bad marshal," would enter and start screaming and shouting at me, or shoving records in my face and assuring me I was doomed to an inglorious and painful death. Then he would leave, and the "good marshal" would come in and console my fears and try to play nice, get me to talk in exchange for protection. It was a good ploy on gangers and the like.

They should have known better though. I had seen this routine many times before, and I made a damned effective "bad marshal." Men broke like water on rocks when Lord Verne unleashed me on them. The Schola had prepared me to resist interrogation. Lord Verne had prepared me to resist interrogation. He had even interrogated us sometimes, when we were on his team. Usually he claimed it was for practice, but I had known better. The Inquisitor trusted no one, possibly not ever but certainly not after Flostak. We had all come out of that world as changed men. Hard men, cold men. They had nothing that could break me. This was going to be a very, very disappointing interrogation for them.

I resisted the urge to cross my arms as I sat in my chair. My posture was ramrod straight and I kept my head high and looking straight ahead. The waiting game was an integral part of any interrogation. Make the prisoner sweat, make him wonder what they know. Are they collecting everything they have and finalizing just how they are going to throw it at him, or are they just dicking away at a game of regicide over there. What was the story again? It was all a dangerous game, designed to give the prisoner too much time to think. Liars slipped up when they thought too much.

I kept myself busy by singing an old, droning marching tune about a Commissar and an amorous Ork.

_Oh, the Lord Commissar made quiet a fuss  
When the Ork followed him home with obscura dust  
"Let me in" she cried, voice full of lust  
And I'll let you know why this war is bust_

The door finally opened without warning, but not in the way I expected it would. There was no explosive decompression of the pistons being jammed open, or the heavy clomping of armored boots as an angry figure stormed in. Nor was it a soft hiss with the dainty entrance of a friendly and smiling figure. No, the person who entered the room wore the humble, unadorned robes of a Sister of Battle. She clutched a dataslate in one hand and a tray with two cups of caffeine in the other. It was a very underwhelming approach, and save for the caffeine I was tempted to reevaluate the purpose of my being in the room. Only tempted. The caffeine sure seemed like an overt peace offering. Perhaps they were starting with the "good marshal."

The Canoness strode into the room with a cherub trailing in wake, scroll and autopen clicking. No one else entered, though I assumed that there were more waiting outside. The question was, were they other Sisters or Ravenor's crew. If this was to be conducted by the Adeptas Sororitas then things would go much differently. Inquisitors and the Sisters of Battle had very different means of interrogation. Ravenor's actually might be the more pleasant of the two. I tried to not wonder what they could have planned. The idle mind is defenseless.

_He opened the door with his boltgun front  
But she knocked it aside with a hefty grunt_

The Sister took the seat opposite me and gestured for the cherub to remain in the corner. I tried to not look at the grotesque, winged creature that hovered just inside my sight. It looked like a little baby, maybe only three years old. Any trace of innocence that might have been had been erased and thoroughly scrubbed away by the brass studs that marked its implants and the silver-glitter wings that flapped lazily behind it. The wings were for show; it had some kind of anti-grav suspensor that held it in place. Half of the work done on cherubs was symbolic. They were pale imitations of the glorious creatures that had paraded around the Emperor's side in the day. I hated them.

The presence of the cherub might have been a calculated move. If Ravenor had done his homework then he knew how uneasy I was around any of the pseudo-human creatures used by Imperial organizations. I couldn't help but respect him, even if he had it out for me. He was a damn fine Inquisitor.

She stared at me for a moment, gauging my mood. I returned her gaze and cocked an eyebrow. Her face remained utterly impassive. Not a hint of what was going on behind those eyes. This was going to be a very interesting conversation.

"You have me at a disadvantage, Madam."

Speaking out of turn could have gone badly for me. The interrogator was supposed to lead, and by speaking first it could be assumed I was being purposefully insolent. It was not my intention, I just wanted to clear the air of any questions that would distract me from the purpose of us being here. I did not think this would breach protocol too badly. She struck me as the type who would understand.

She did. "A disadvantage, Sergeant Kane?"

"May I know your name?"

"You may call me Sister Celeste." Her eyes flicked over to the cherub and the autopen went to the parchment. The official dialogue had begun. Now I would have to watch what I said and be extra cautious. A single misspoken word could damn me. Everything I said would have to be carefully measured to avoid implication. Servie with the Inquisition trained me to treat every spoken word as a potential admittance. The wrong word taken the wrong way would have me hung from the prow. Possibly literally. Such a horrific display of execution, though fairly pointless, had been done in the past.

"Is this an interrogation, Sister?"

"It is not." She held up a hand to forestall further questions. "Before you go any further: Sergeant Leon Albrecht Kane, formerly of the 804th Kasrkin and more recently under the employ of Inquisitor Lord Verne of Gurdun, I charge you in this dialogue to render a truthful account of the events surrounding the planetary rioting of the penitentiary planet Kairn and the occult workings of the rogue psyker Kyle Shechem. Your testimony will be recorded under oath _Veritae aut Morte_. The testimony of other witnesses will be applied to your account for testing. How do you choose to reply?

"_Verita aut Morte_" I answered. "May my account be righteous and pleasing to the Emperor."

The cherub jotted it all down in silence. The room was filled with the scratching of the autopen. Like dry nails on sheet metal. I resigned myself to put up with the irritating background. Sister Celeste certainly noticed it, but in giving no remark towards it and not seeking to replace the obviously too-dull pen, she made it clear that it would not disappear. If anything she might be expecting for it to distract me and trip me up in any lies. Intelligent, organized men were very easy to trap with subtle ploys such as that. A fault pen was hardly a worry to me. They could go all the way to the Ninth Action and I could laugh in their faces

I had been tortured by Dark Eldar once.

"Very well" she said after a slight pause. My little addition to the expected response must have thrown her for a loop. It was clear she did not know as much about me as Ravenor did, or she would have been taken the comment in stride. She must have assumed I would follow the direct protocol called for and not stray from the proscribed remarks. Ha! Even Lord Verne had given up on trying to drill the proper procedures of the Inquisition into me.

"Your testimony will be compared to existing records" she stated. "The savant known as Munzi, deceased, relayed periodic records to the _Greyworm_, which we have appropriated, and in addition kept comprehensive audio and pict-logs of the events. These records are unfortunately damaged and incomplete; should you request a viewing these resources will be made available to you. Will you require a copy of the recordings?"

"I would appreciate it, yes." I digested the information with as calm a face as I could muster. Munzi rarely showed his recordings to anyone unless Lord Verne specifically ordered him to. The amount of information that could be gleaned from his recordings would prove interesting, at the least. I doubted I could find anything that would aid my defense in them. His recordings would most certainly show how I had shot Sister Superior Myrabeth in the head. For shits and giggles then. Perhaps I could get a good look at what they had been doing while we were rotting in Bojock's cells.

"Noted." The Sister glanced back at the cherub and ordered the creature to submit the requisition. It did so with a gurgling yip that might have been some form of language, or just gibberish. The answer seemed to satisfy the Sister, and she turned back to me with a sage nod. "The copies will be in your accommodations upon completion of this dialogue."

"My thanks, Sister Celeste. I take it that such an offering was not mandatory."

"There are some among my order that believe those accused of heresy deserve nothing but a swift death." She offered a frank and unreassuring smile. "I belong to those that hold the belief that even the fallen can be redeemed by means other than death. As such you will be afforded reasonable access to those tools which might help you find the path to salvation and repentance. I believe you will find the period 3.13-3.32 to be particularly illuminating."

I did not have to ask which time in the recordings that was. The slight tightness that formed around her eyes and lips warned me that it showed what took place in the cells. I filed away the numbers for later. Her words had been chosen carefully to elicit a response of some kind. In naming me a heretic and then speaking of redemption she made it sound like my sentence was already pronounced. There were not many responses I could give that could not be intentionally misconstrued. Denying it could be seen as my having fallen so far that I was indeed unredeemable. A blanket acknowledgement would be seen as admitting to the charges, and so condemn myself as a heretic. It was a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't wordplay. So I chose to say nothing except:

"I will review Munzi's recordings thoroughly."

It occurred to me that her motives lay beyond what she admitted. There were two ways to handle auxiliary information when seeking to extract information from a prisoner. The first was to withhold the information and wait for the prisoner to contradict the evidence in their possession. The other was to acknowledge the source before the prisoner and see how he reacted. A man intent on lying could be utterly wrong-footed by the careful application of such a revelation. In some cases, the guilty party might even confess to everything on the outset rather than face the consequences of lying to an aware judiciary.

She was going with the latter tactic. In her own humble way she had thrown Munzi's recording in my face and was no waiting to see if I reacted. By pointing to the cell-incident she also was informing me that they had irrefutable evidence that I had indeed murdered a Sister. That alone earned me the death sentence. But there were many worse fates than death, and she seemed to think I might be deserving of a few. That was why she was showing me this, to see how far down the path of damnation I would drag myself. Guilty men were like dams. Once they cracked, everything came out. The Ecclesiarchy hated to execute a heretic when there were more sins to uncover. To them it was like eating only half of a morella steak.

Ravenor said I was on trial for two things. One was very specific: the murder of the two Sisters. The other, heresy, was a very vague and open-ended charge. Either he had tasked the Ecclesiarch presence here to root that out, or Sister Celeste had taken that responsibility on her own initiative. I could see it going either way. The solid money was on Sister Celeste. What little experience I had with Sisters left me the pretty reliable impression that those who dealt with the rooting out of heresy were utterly ravenous about their tasks. I would probably see plenty of interrogation units before this was over. Throne forbid they threaten me with arco-flagellantism. I would rather strangle myself with a boot lace.

"The necessities are commenced with" Sister Celeste said with what amounted to a huff of impatience. "Now, for the matter at hand. Do you have any final questions before we begin with your testament of the incidents on Kairn?"

"Is Munzi's the only testimony that will be called to my trial?"

The slightest tic of her right eye told me I had once again thrown her off balance. When she spoke she had the faintest, almost untraceable undercurrent of suspicion lacing her words. "You are expecting some other source. Sergeant Kane?"

"Two other sources" I corrected, speaking with as much humility as I could muster. "I was informed that two of my comrades were recovered from the planet as well."

"Two were, yes."

I had the sudden realization that they had meant to keep me in the dark on that. She had been trying to play both sides of the coin: give me some knowledge of auxiliary source material while holding the rest back for later use. A recording could be allowed because it did not change. It was set and there was no way I could alter or corroborate with it. I could not utilize the recording to lie. But, theoretically, I could do that with my comrades. If either of them was also tainted, then the two, or three, of us could have made a preplanned alibi. Or some other nonsense like that. I knew how these kind of people worked. Always suspecting a conspiracy around the corner. Adin and Lady Kairi had been their reserve cards.

Harlon was going to catch hell over this. I almost felt sorry for the ex-bounty hunter.

"Their testimonies will be recorded in due time." She drew my attention back. "And compared against yours. Is that something that worries you?"

"Worries?" I made a show of laughing, even though I felt no mirth. "Madam, there isn't a thing on this ship that worries me. I'm surrounded by the most devout and most deadly forces of the God-Emperor. Can't think of a place I'd rather be."

She saw straight through the bluster. That was fine, the point was that I had successfully dodged a potentially incriminating answer. I could tell she wanted to purse the question further, but she had said this was a time of giving testimony, not of interrogation. True to her word, she merely jotted down a note on her dataslate about the remark and gave the matter no further thought. Her curiosity would have to wait. I was certain the question would be revisited soon, and in a much less friendly and relaxing atmosphere.

"Let us begin with your purpose on Kairn. You came here under the employ of the deceased Inquisitor Verne fourteen days ago. Is that correct?"

I confirmed her statement. Harlon had caught me fully up to speed on how much time had passed. It didn't feel like fourteen days ago.

"The vessel which ferried you here is the _Greyworm_, captained by the Rogue Trader Malcus Drogtha?"

Again, I agreed. Part of me wondered if these were merely formalities that had to be observed. The other part of me wondered if they were attuning a vox-verita to my voice. The first few minutes of conversation would have trained it to recognize my voice, these questions would show it how I told the truth. I might have been over-thinking the whole thing, but it was the kind of thing I had done for Lord Verne.

My instinct proved correct when she rattled off several more questions of which they clearly knew the answer. After the tenth such question, more than enough time for a vox-verita to pinpoint my unqiue vocal tones, she abruptly switched tactics. There was no gentle change of conversation or leading into the next line of thought.

"Let's start with the first day" she said. Her eyes grew sharper and she adopted a patient air. Clearly, this was something she was not entirely looking forward to. Personal testimonies could be dreadfully dull. This one wouldn't be. "Beginning with your introduction to the planet and prisoner 25S-7W-8362UP."


	5. Flostak- A Merry Band

**Greyworm**

Leon watched his men's faces as they broke from the briefing. The news that they would be shut up in the _Greyworm_ while three lucky bastards got to go planet-side elicited some frustrated groans, but the promise of shore leave set them cheering and back-slapping. As soon as he dismissed them they drifted off to squad time and left him alone with Adin and Rej. Both men stood by, waiting for him to speak first. He knew Rej was not disappointed at being left on the _Greyworm_. Someone had to stay behind and keep the men out of trouble. He was the perfect candidate, and he knew it too. Besides, he had just traded a senior Helmsman rating for a regicide set. His skills were developing quickly and Leon had no doubt he would not begrudge some more time at the boards. They all knew Lord Verne well enough to not worry about sending so few down. He was always quick to recall the troops when things got hot, and rarely called them in too late.

It wasn't like they would be lazy up here. No, he would have them all practicing urban combat in the emptier sections of the _Greyworm_. There was one area in particular that crewmen had begun calling the "firezone" for the many late-shift raids that had been simulated against invisible heretics or, to the crewmen's dismay, themselves. Those occurred rarely, and only when Captain Drogtha was in so high spirits that he actually approved them. Stealing grox was one thing; interfering with the state of the crew was an entirely different matter.

The rare time or two that Captain Drotha had allowed it, he usually tagged along to see his crewmen's startled reactions and the terror in their faces. He always took note of the ones that reacted well. There was one particular bull-headed brute ensign named Corcher that had woken up swinging when we raided his crew barracks. It took three men to restrain him, and two came out injured. Captain Drogtha had loved the show and awarded the man an extra ration of liquor and a promotion off of the sludge-decks. Officially the reward came for his quick response to the possibility of an enemy being on the ship. Protecting the crew and all that nonsense. Personally I think Captain Drogtha was just elated to watch a couple Kasrkin get their asses kicked.

"Flip of the coin" Leon assured them both. Neither man showed the slightest hint of believing him.

"Adin's a good choice" Rej said. "If any of us can pull an undercover as a slovenly thug it'd be him."

Adin grinned from ear to ear. "If it'd get me off this blasted ship, I'd pose as a Thracian manwhore."

The Kasrkin shared a quiet laugh. Leon relayed everything Lord Verne had said to both of them, leaving out nothing. The men jotted down notes on their handbooks. They would get copies of the dataslate briefs, forwarded by Leon himself, but every Kasrkin in the unit relied equally on their note-taking and gut instincts.

"Sounds like a tall order" Adin said when he finished the short briefing. He took a single long breath as he considered the notes he had made. "Throne! That's a lot of people."

"And we'll probably have to fight a bunch of them too" Leon added without a trace of humor. "Still glad you're going planet-side?"

The Troop Sergeant made a show of looking around. "A chance to feel a real sun and get my hands on a broad who won't cause trouble? Eh, it's worth it."

"Your vote of confidence is overwhelming." Rej slapped them both on the shoulders. "Gentlemen, I will ship your remains home with full honors."

It was meant to be a joke, but his deadpan delivery didn't carry enough of his intention across to be readily understood. Their mood sobered rapidly. Tossing the dataslate on his bunk, Leon sighed and motioned for Adin to follow him. They had to go pick up Jenkus Mulder before heading to the armory. Adin threw on his uniform blouse and joined him in the passage. Out of sight of the rest of the men, he relaxed his guard and let his real concern show.

"This is going to be a bad one" Adin muttered. Leon shot him a sidelong look as they started for the brig.

"You think so?"

"Don't give me that crap" he snapped. "I don't even need to read into this Junta Cartel to see we are dealing with something way out of our league. Hunting demons in a wasted city is one thing, but these guys will be stacked to overflowing with assassins, bounty hunters, ex-military, and all kinds of nasty shtako."

"We've seen worse."

"No, we've seen more blatant." Adin shook his head. "These guys will be subtle. We'll have to watch our back every step of the way."

"Can't think of a guy I'd rather have watching my back than you."

His second in command gave a bitter laugh. "You know it. But why Rew?"

"Because Jenkus is a brawler. He's tougher than a Leman Russ and has a talent for street life."

"Good enough for me."

His tone made it clear that Adin was not actually persuaded. He had good reason, Leon had to admit that. Private Mulder was the newest man on the team, having transferred in at the same time that Leon re-transferred back into the unit. Warsaw had been his first combat operation with the team, and since then he had proven to be the closest thing to a wild card that a Kasrkin could. It wasn't that he didn't gel with the men; in fact he got along quite well. But he had shown early on that his pride was his primary motivator. Everyone had their story of how they came to the Schola Progenium. Few talked about it, it was one of the few secrets that the men could keep, but Jenkus Mulder loved to brag. He was a war orphan: His father, also a Kasrkin, had been killed in some hush-hush operation involving the pylon at Kasr Gesh and his mother had been a high ranking Arbites enforcer murdered in a cult uprising. On whichever side he looked, he had proud tradition and great achievements goading him on. It was his one fault, the desire to surpass his parents in glory.

What made his obsessive pursuit of glory bearable was the man's superb talent on the battlefield. He never went full rogue, breaking orders and the like, but he had an almost mystical feel for the flow of combat and had directed some pretty spectacular maneuvers. It was safe to say he had too much faith in his "knack" as we called it, but when it came down to it he had clearly earned his place in the elite Cadian ranks. Had we remained in the service, he could easily have reached Sergeant by now.

Leon didn't say it, but there were three other reasons he had decided to bring him along. One, to keep him off the _Greyworm_ and make sure he did not get into any more trouble. He was the most consistent visitor to the brig, and always on the same general charges of fraternization and unsanctioned pharmaceuticals. Like all of the men, he did not like being stuck on the _Greyworm_ for months at a time. His wild spirit demanded action to keep himself entertained. That made him the closest to snapping, and therefore the most likely to cause chaos while the team was planet-side. If he was going to get into trouble he should at least be wreaking that havoc on the Enemy.

Two, he was one of the few among them that had bothered to learn auxiliary combat arts. All Kasrkin trained to excellence in several variants of close combat drill, and were deadly with any of them, but about a dozen of the men had picked up more exotic martial forms. Adin and Leon had studied preliminary arts with the Death Cult of Gehenna. While they had learned none of the sacred arts or meditations, even the basics were hands-down more effective than the most advanced Guard drills. Guard drills taught how to kill with bayonets, rifle butts, hands, and spades. The third Death Art they had learned taught how to kill a room of five men with a needle, the sewing kind. Jenkus had learned something more fitting for his size. The Arryn Way was an underground combative course growing in popularity through the subsector. It was a unique heavyweight brawling art that emphasized subtlety and agility over brute strength. Leon had thought it a pleasant distraction for the man at first, until he had watched Jenkus take on three smaller and supposedly more agile men without throwing a single direct punch. It was all about deception, to take advantage of a person's expectations and counter moves before they even occurred. Jenkus threw himself into training with fanatic fervor, and it had paid off splendidly.

Third, and somewhat most importantly, Jenkus had no minding that Leon was an untouchable. The men put up with it, the Chain of Command and their personal loyalty to his proven leadership made it no fuss, but there always remained that uneasiness whenever the men spoke to him up close and personal. A select few were unbothered by it, and that was more a testament to their stubbornness than to Leon's progress in drawing his Blankness into himself. It was a rare talent for an untouchable, and the thought had always made him bitter. He was a one in a billion product of human evolution, and within that one in a billion he was another one in a billion, an untouchable with some ability to control how his aura dispersed.

Blanks were not like psykers; blanks merely existed. The nature of their void-presence in the Warp was not something that was supposed to be containable, not naturally at least. But Leon was a special case. For some reason that Lord Verne had never bothered to look into, he could draw and release his Blankness the same way a psyker could. It was only effective to the point that less sensitive "dulls" wouldn't notice it. Most Cadians, having lived so close to the Eye of Terror, were more sensitive to the Warp. They always felt his disturbing presence. A select few including Adin and Rej and Jenkus, could shrug it off as if they were unaffected. They weren't, but they had learned to live with it and took no visible notice.

They entered the brig and were greeted by the Officer of the Watch. Kreiger Frenn glared up from his paperwork before nodding towards the holding cells. A pair of burly armsmen with snub pistols on their hips stepped to the side and keyed the hatch. They were not followed in. Pict-recorders tracked their every movement, and the _Greyworm's_ crewmen had a very practical approach to trouble in the cells. If someone tries something funny, just lock the hatch behind them.

Jenkus sat in the nearer cell, head bowed and elbows on his knees. His face was pale and he had a sickly discoloring around his eyes and lips. Leon tapped the bars to gain his attention. The man hardly bothered looking up. A shudder ran through the man's body as he fought to his feet. He stood with his legs spread shoulder width, no doubt to minimize his discomfort. Adin chuckled quietly at the man's obvious contrition. They wouldn't have to rail at him this time. He had already suffered.

"Those two better have been worth it" Leon growled. The private did not reply immediately. Shifting his feet in a careful manner, he approached the cell door and drew to attention. Leon did not have to be told that the man was dealing with stomach cramps, chafing, and other unpleasant things. It read in his stance.

"Wouldn't have changed a thing, Chief, 'cepting I would have checked the farmer's market a little more thoroughly."

His men had taken to calling the walk-in cabinet that held the ship's medicinal as the "farmer's market." If Captain Drogtha ever found out he would blow a gasket.

"Yes, well that should teach your morons to read the labels." Leon put his palm on the scanner and the cell door slid inwards. "Come on, we've got work to do."

"Work?" He frowned. "Don't I get sick call or something?"

"No pity for self-inflicted wounds" Leon replied with a friendly scowl. They made their way back to the entry room. The armsman at the desk eyed them for a moment before letting them through.

"Call me" Jenkus said with as cheeky a grin as he could muster. He waved to the Officer of the Watch. "I'm gonna miss that friendly face."

"Stow it" Adin told the private. "You've gotten yourself in enough trouble."

Thankfully, he shut his mouth and followed them to the armory. His gait was uneven and stiff, moving slightly bowlegged. Leon ordered the man to go see Selene as soon as they were finished. While they walked Leon filled him in. The private listened in silence, facing betraying nothing except a slight spark of incredulity regarding the size of the cartel they would be investigating.

The _Greyworm's_ armory was probably the only part of the ship that did not inspire awe and wonder. The entrance consisted of a simple, reinforced blast-door with a complement of three armsmen in the lobby at all times. As the armory duty officers they had shot-cannons loaded and within arms' reach. Twelve men rotated through the armory. Out of the _Greyworm's_ thousand man crew, these twelve were the only ones that got along well with the Kasrkin. All dozen had served in the Guard, and one or two had been privileged to fight alongside Cadian units. They held true respect for Leon's command. And Leon's men never gave them trouble.

Leon did not have to request access to Lord Verne's vault. The lead man barked a sharp order to the other two, who dropped their game of spade-and-tires in an instant. Priming the vault's door, they pulled the outer grating to the side and locked it in place. Adin stayed behind for a minute to speak to the armsmen as Leon and Jenkus strode on in. One of the armsmen followed them. It was standard procedure, one that Leon did not mind and did not care enough about to speak to Lord Verne. That Captain Drogtha allowed them to take one of the three armory vaults for private use was more than generous. Leon could not fault the man for retaining an eye on how his space was being used. His men never intruded and they never touched; they merely stayed close enough to see what kinds of weapons Lord Verne's team were bringing on board the ship. Leon wondered if Captain Drogtha actually cared. Or maybe he just liked keeping tabs on what came on his ship. That certainly made sense.

"So we're grabbing some exotics" Jenkus said, face lit up with glee. He was probably the only Kasrkin here who looked forward to using non-standard weapons. The hot-shot was the most reliable, deadly weapon they could dream of. It spoke volumes about his personality that he approached the lockers with so much enthusiasm. Downgrading from a hot-shot to a lousy autogun. It would make combat more challenging, that was why Jenkus liked the idea. Leon did not agree with that at all. He preferred combat to be as disgustingly one-sided on their side as he could manage it. The only fair fight is the one your opponent loses, that was his philosophy.

"Nothing too exotic" Leon stressed. He nodded pointedly towards the multibarreled flameshot the private had drawn. He wouldn't even have to fire the weapon to draw eyes. It was a special piece, designed to be deployed by a heavy weapons team. Once upon a time it belonged to a heretic merchantman based out of Thracian Prime. They appropriated it off of the charred corpses of his personal guards while searching the wreckage of his mansion. It was a beautiful piece of murder, but there was absolutely nothing subtle about it. It fed off a special backpack-charger and unleashed a fifty-meter range stream of molten death. It burned hotter than promethium and ate through armor like a lascannon.

Beautiful, but antithetical to the mission.

"The goal is to blend, not to draw attention."

Jenkus returned the weapon reverently. His gaze drifted to the more standard gear the men had acquired. Carbine autoguns, heavy caliber hunting pistols, razor-toothed short blades. Selecting a stout piece with the serial numbers acid-scrubbed he racked the slide and took aim at the far wall, testing the sights. The simple iron sights satisfied him, and he began scooping up several empty magazines that paired with the weapon. Leon let his attention wander over the weapons, seeking one that would feel right. Leaving his hotshot behind struck him as wrong. He had never parted with it before. It went with him everywhere, it was a part of him. And now he had to leave it behind.

It something had to replace it, then Leon was damned sure it would be a worthy newcomer. He ignored the rows of autoguns and shotcannons that formed the base armory of collections. He passed by the superlative killing machines that made up their exotic trophies. A Glavian needle pistol caught his eye for a moment but he dismissed the thought. Only a pompous ass would carry such a womanish weapon. He looked over a dozen death machines and found nothing.

Towards the end of the line his eyes drifted over to the set of bullpup compacts. The weapons were about as long as his arm, barrel set far back into the weapon so that it hardly extended past the front grip. He checked one in a firing stance and found that it was agreeably small and easy to conceal. It had a smart-targeter sight that identified human body heat with flashing red diamonds. A very dangerous small weapon. He tried to remember when they had picked it up. Maybe someone had bought it. That was always possible, and considering the pay they received and the few times they were allowed to spend it, most of the men had some unusually large accounts.

He took them both, though he planned to hand the other to Adin. Adin, who had rejoined them, had turned aside to a well-used hunting rifle. Most Guard officers took advantage of the better armories to acquire more powerful weapons like bolt pistols and chainswords. Adin had gone the opposite route, fulfilling his lifelong dream of getting his hands on a hotshot longlas. The weapons were still considered experimental and had not reached full production and integration into the Cadian ranks, but it had never failed Adin. He was sacrificing the most of any of them. But he wasn't moping and groaning about it. Leon smiled bitterly at the man's irrepressible spirit.

Slipping one of the compacts into a duffel, he stuffed in magazines, cases of ammunition, and a single shotpistol for backup. He paused in passing a rack of bladed weapons. A simple, unadorned power sword fashioned like the Tallarn sabers hung at eye level. He studied it for a long moment, tracing the smooth and ultra-sharp edges. Even without the power fields it was a fine and beautiful weapon. The lack of ornamentation pleased him; Cadians were a very pragmatic people. Opulent displays of wealth amounted to nothing more than heretical pride in the self. This blade showed none of that false-importance. It was clean, functional. He could not resist taking it off the peg and adding it to his arsenal. The power cell fed into a latch under the grip, leaving its identity fairly hidden. Until he activated the cell it appeared as little more than a bulky-hilted saber.

Two compacts, a full size autogun, the hunting rifle and a mix of sidearms made for a realistic show of heavily armed mercenaries. Leon considered what the others might prefer and added several weapons for the rest of the retinue. Small arms mainly, things that could be excused as personal weapons. It was a formidable arsenal for a small team. He would have felt more secure with the hotshots and carapace armor.

The armsman watched it all impassively. When they finished their selections he followed them out of the vault and sealed it. The lead man wrote up a blank requisition form which Leon signed and they moved out. Only Adin appeared pleased with the new gear. By the time we returned to the barracks Captain Drogtha had delivered several sets of armored clothing for them to inspect. Rej had already inspected the lot and laid out his opinion of what was best, but Leon looked it all over before making a decision on a slick beige bodysuit supplemented by a faux-leather jacket and baggy workpants. He added a wide-brimmed hat to complete the outfit, one that could hide his face with sufficient lowering.

The other Kasrkin watched them gear up. Some did not hold back their blatant longing to join the trip to the surface. More reserved members of the unit cracked lewd jokes about how they were getting all prettied up like hour-rate hookers. Leon acknowledged those with equally caustic remarks that drew laughs across the room. Gathering up several changes of clothing each, the three men spent a minute searching their personal belongings for anything else they might need. Then, with a final look at the men scattered across the barracks, Leon headed out.

Captain Drogtha himself received them in the primary hangar. A short and thickset dwarf of a man, Captain Drogtha hardly inspired awe at first glance. His flowing ochre robes made a poor attempt at hiding his plump frame. The many jewels grafted into his hands, arms and face bespoke of the uncountable wealth that he so often pretended to not own. Surgical enhancements had left him with a permanent sneer, one that struck Leon as uninhibitedly cruel and condescending. The Captain's track record with his crew spoke otherwise, seeing as how he compensated his rated crew well and gave regular incentives for hard work. Those incentives had become more frequent, or so Leon had been told, since Lord Verne became a long-term guest.

Speaking of which…

A perky, blue-eyed figure stood eagerly behind her Captain. The young Lieutenant-Director stared at him openly and without a hint of propriety. Tilting her head just a little to the side, she regarded him with that subtle and sensual look that requested he step aside for a private moment before setting off. A curt nod, hidden in the bobbing of his head as they walked, was his only visible reply. A glowing smile spread across her lips for the barest moment, quelled when Captain Drogtha turned suddenly to issue an order. He thought he heard Adin clear his throat in a noisy and intentional matter.

"Something to say?"

"Just that you're quite the Casanova in that roguish costume, Chief. You just heart-slayed Drogtha's pretty little dame at a hundred paces."

Jenkus chuckled alongside them. "And you give us all kinds of shit for chasing skirts."

"I give you shit for getting caught" Leon muttered under his breath. "And for giving me headaches."

They approached and found that, to Leon's surprise, they were the first ones there. Leon greeted Captain Drogtha in the foppish and overly formal manner that their driver so loved. As he straightened from his bow Leon gestured to his men.

"My thanks for the ware. It is serviceable for our duties."

The dwarf Rogue Trader harrumphed and cast a critical eye over the assembled Kasrkin. Despite his implanted sneer, the look of disdain could be clearly seen. "You are a sorry lot outside your previous carapace armor. Must be quite a blow for you, having to shed your special weapons and armors. Should I have servitors nearby to clean up your tear-puddles?"

Leon chose not to reply. Motioning to his men, he ordered them to leave the duffels holding their gear in a neat stack beside the puddlejumper that would take them to the surface. Once Sune arrived with the void-shielded containers they would pack it all in and be off. The men complied in silence, returning his jerking hand signals with nods and signals of their own. In the mix flowed more than a few derogatory comments regarding the Rogue Trader. Captain Drogtha watched in blissful ignorance. He had never made an effort to understand their signal-cant. Most likely it was because he thought such things lay beneath him. Sometimes Leon appreciated the man's inane arrogance.

"Lord Verne has promised me that your men will behave themselves while you are surface-side" Captain Drogtha stated. He had crossed his arms in what was supposed to be an intimidating manner. Considering that Leon had to look down to see the man, the effect was lost. He appeared more like a petulant child than the powerful head of an ancient Rogue Trader dynasty.

"They will" Leon promised.

"They had better. You uncouth barbarians are more disruptive than a pack of Orks" the Captain growled. He stabbed at Leon with a pudgy finger encrusted with numerous rings. Leon knew that at least one of those metallic bands contained a digital weapon that could paint the hangar with his blood. That did not mean he had to back down and be cowed by the pompous oaf.

"My men are Cadian" Leon snarled. "And a good deal more civilized than you could ever pray to be."

The Captain's eyes glittered dangerously. For a heartbeat Leon considered releasing the control he had over his untouchable power. Just for half a moment, and the Captain might soil his pants with dread. It would be most satisfying. The Captain had proven to be uniquely affected by his Blank power. He had found out the first time when, to force a point, Lord Verne ordered him to reveal just how horribly disturbing his presence could be. It had taken three servitors and four glasses of amasec to calm him down.

"Your men are blunt, mindless weapons. You know not a speck of culture between the lot of you. Throne only knows why the Inquisitor could find use of a one-dimensional cretin such as yourself."

Leon bit back his reply, because he knew that beating the hell out of the fat fop would not be worth getting Lord Verne evicted from the _Greyworm_. The Captain was a total rot, but at the very least he had proven loyal. He had held his ship steady in the face of a wayward Ork flotilla when any man in his right mind would have fled. These verbal skirmishes meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

So he turned aside. He swallowed back the bitter reply he had in store. The Rogue Trader was politic enough to not pursue the topic, and trundled off to inspect the other shuttles in the spacious hangar. Leon pretended to find interest in the frontal struts of the cutter until the Captain had wandered out of earshot. Then, turning in the opposite direction, he nodded to Lieutenant-Director. Her elfin face fairly glowed with pleasure as she quickstepped to his side.

"I will miss you" she said with a breathy whisper. Leaning past him, she pretended to inspect the strut as if he had directed her attention. She tried to brush up against him but he sidled away. That brought a youthful pout to her lips. "What has you so cold? Already falling into soldier-mode, Sergeant?"

"We're done" Leon announced. He kept his voice low and business-like. It was undoubtedly harsh, and not a good way to tell a girl she was back on the market. He didn't care. With five or so minutes until departure there wasn't time for a subtle and gentle explanation.

To her credit, the officer did not recoil. Her eyes went wide for a second, mouth clamping shut so tightly her lips whitened. A tentative hand pulled back and reached for his face. He caught it in his larger one and pushed it down.

"Boss's orders, my lady."

That frown melted into a scowl, a scowl into a death glare that she shot towards Captain Drogtha. Leon appreciated that she refrained from saying anything. Instead she offered Leon a grim nod and turned on her heel. Didn't fuss or complain or anything. Just swallowed her fury down like a pro and stalked away with the barest hint of a stomp in her step. Leon watched her go out of the corner of his eye, taking a final look at the woman's stunning behind as it pressed against her tight naval suitpants. Yep, he would miss that.

"And this is why we can't have nice things" Adin murmured, coming up beside him. He nodded in the Lieutenant's direction. "Finest tail on the ship and you just had to bail on it."

"A sad waste of resources" Leon replied. He shrugged as if he did not care. "That's the life of a soldier, Adin."

The men exchanged a wry look. The same thought was running through their minds but each wanted the other to say it first. Finally, Leon slapped Adin on the shoulder.

"She's off the market, bub. Lord Verne ordered it specifically."

"Damn it all to hell" Adin cursed. He spun on his heel and headed back towards their gear. The others had started to arrive. Sune dragged a dolly that held four of the void-shielded containers that Lord Verne had requested. They would probably only need three. Gesturing to his men, he set them to accost two of the containers and start loading. He allowed their sidearms to remain. That much could be allowed. Strapping a twelve-round hand cannon to his hip, he stood to the side and watched the others prepare.

Selene arrived with one of the ship's medicae in tow. They had between them a good amount of emergency gear, no doubt gathered from Captain Drogtha's finest stocks. A servitor-loader met them at one of the containers and proceeded to lay the medicine in the most efficient calculated pattern. Even though it had a computer-perfect efficiency, Selene remained by its side and catalogued every single placement. In the rare chance that they needed to access the supplies before unpacking at a safe house, she wanted to know where everything was.

Boudi and Munzi took a whole container between them. Arcane cogitator-machines and a host of silk-wrapped items went into their container. Whatever went in there had to be some secret Mechanicus hoodoo, because they just about murdered a servitor that wandered too close.

Sune refused to let go of his warhammer. Adin spent all of three seconds arguing with the giant barbarian before he realized that he would not be able to convince the man. Turning to Leon for help, the Troop Sergeant made a pleading gesture.

"Sune, we only need you to leave it behind for a short time" Leon promised. "Just until we get through the spaceport security. Two hours, tops."

"Sune's weapon goes with Sune" the barbarian growled. "Weapon is badge of honor. To be weaponless is to be dishonored."

"Oh Throne!" Adin sighed. "There is no dishonor, Sune. You don't hold the weapon when you sleep. Is that dishonorable?"

Sune stared at the man coolly, and Leon realized that the barbarian did in fact sleep with his warhammer. Putting a hand on Adin's shoulder, he gently but forcefully steered the man away and sent him off with a shove. Leon would have to handle this by himself.

"Sune, listen to me carefully." Leon resisted the urge to cross his arms. That would only be seen as a challenge, and he did not want Sune flipping over some blasted honor blight. "Lord Verne has said that we need to be covert. Do you know what that means? We need to be stealthy, like a hunter. Hunters don't run about flashing their weapons and hollering their presence. That scares away the animals."

The barbarian appeared confused. "Sune will not be shouting the Lord's mission in the spaceport. That would be foolish."

The Kasrkin sergeant suppressed a growl. "That's not the point! That warhammer," he pointed for emphasis, "is unique. If people see that, they will become suspicious. Suspicion will lead to people looking for us, and that will make it impossible to hide. We aren't saying you can't carry it, just not for that brief moment when we are in the spaceport. You don't see me and my men in our carapace armor, right?"

Sune pointed at the pistol strapped to Leon's hip. "Leon carries weapon."

"Yes, a small one." Leon self-consciously tugged his jacket around. "See, you can't even see it."

"Sune knows it is there."

"But other people won't. And even if they do, this little palm-popper is hardly eyebrow worthy compared to that monstrosity. This is normal. That isn't."

Judging by the perplexed expression on the barbarian's face, Leon had lost him several sentences ago. The giant reached up with one hand and felt his eyebrows. Leon spat out a curse and reached for the warhammer. Sune threw the weapon forward with speed that defied its massive weight, bringing the weapon from his shoulder to tickling Leon's eyelashes in the time it took him to finish expelling his breath. Fire flashed in the barbarian's eyes.

"Leon tries to take Sune's weapon, Leon dies."

"Give him the warhammer, Sune."

Lord Verne appeared behind the barbarian as if from thin air. The Inquisitor had foregone his traditional Ordo garb in favor of a sleek crimson bodyglove under offwhite breeches and kutte. A cream-colored cape hung over his right arm, concealing a hand which Leon assumed was armed. His dark graying hair had been slicked back and ponytailed in the current fashion of Gudrunite merchant-nobles. A beautifully-crafted fake bionic eye had been placed over his real right one. The eye probably had true augmetic capabilities that he would make use of, but for the uniformed it gave him that toughened edge of a youthful but experienced merchant. A string of cosmetic piercings ran the length of his left ear to the tip of his jaw, pearls and diamonds. Captain Drogtha might have donated those from his own collection. Topping off the outrageous pageantry were the coiling snake tattoos that climbed up the sides of the Inquisitor's throat. Their gaping maws met and overlapped on his mouth, giving the obscene impression that his lips were actually snakeskin implants. Maybe they were. Lord Verne certainly did not seem to have skimped on the disguise. It was hard to recognize the real Lord Verne underneath the gaudy decoration.

Sune was not fooled either. Turning to address Lord Verne, he removed the warhammer from Leon's face. "Lord?"

"As the Kasrkin said. We are hunting here, Sune. Our first step towards fooling the prey is to slip in unannounced, like a slywolf among the eggs. Once we are through the spaceport your weapon will be returned to you."

The barbarian nodded without a fight. Handing the weapon to Leon, who took it with a grunt in both hands, Sune fell in behind the Inquisitor. There he stood watch like a faithful hound, and Leon knew that even without the warhammer Sune was a dreadfully dangerous foe. They were all dangerous, in their own way. Selene rarely took up a weapon, but life in the slums had taught her how to shoot. She was by no means an excellent marksman, but she did not shy from violence when it was necessary. Even Boudi was a fiend with those little cyberblades grafted into Boudi's forearms.

"How goes the preparation" Lord Verne demanded. Leon gestured towards the four containers, now packed and shut. The crew stood waiting beside the puddlejumper.

"Ready and waiting, Sir."

**Flostak**

Flostak's capitol city was truly a beautiful marvel of Imperial architecture. Soaring Gothic spires dominated the wealthier districts of the city, accentuated by handcarved statues and buttresses proclaimed the majesty of the God-Emperor and his servants. Sprawling Ecclesiarch bell towers rose from a hundred churches, tended by the eternally vigilant priesthood dedicated to His worship. It was a place that spoke of nothing but the true worship of He-On-The-Throne.

The bells rang day and night this month, for the Saint's Eve was approaching. In twenty four days every house in the city would turn off its lights, lock its doors, and fast for eleven hours. The people would pray, from the ruling families to the lowest of gutterborns, and remember their history. Bands of black-robed priests would patrol the richer districts armed with censers and clubs to enforce the curfew. The lesser quarters would see the haunting shadows of arco-flagellants rushing this way and that, destroying any foolish or unlucky enough to be caught outside. It was the darkest night, the night where citizens prayed towards the Sepulcher of His Radiant Salvation. They prayed for holiness, for salvation, for the light of the God-Emperor to bless them.

Some prayed to survive the night.

The first settlers on Flostak had been amazed at the readiness with which their new world welcomed mankind. Obscenely abundant natural resources made Flostak one of the fastest growing colonies of its time. Within two hundred years of the first landing there were eighteen major cities, forty three manufacturing districts, and three Foundings. The numbers that came from Flostak outstripped anything seen before. The planet was like a paradise, the most succulent of harvests that fed the bloated Imperium of Man. Its growth never slowed, never even showed a hint of exhausting its supplies.

Then came the Horus Heresy, and the First Ravaging. A fragment of the Iron Warriors fleet descended on the unsuspecting manufacturing world and devastated eighty nine cities. In the space of eight weeks the world was laid to waste. Millions died and seventy percent of the planet's production capabilities were destroyed. Loyalist forces eventually drove the Iron Warriors away, but not before vast stores of natural resources had been contaminated and rendered unusable. Flostak did not recover for a thousand years.

By M37 the planet had recovered splendidly. Production had returned over time as contaminated resources were purified. The natural resilience of the agricultural regions meant that food was still abundant and enriching. The planet neared its former glory when the Second Ravaging occurred.

It began with a whisper, a plague that arose from the northern tundra. Sickness leapt from city to city, borne on mining caravans and spreading pestilence that had no cure. The plague spread across the planet, leaving untold numbers dead, in the matter of months. Imperial authorities quarantined the planet, destroyed ships attempting to leave. Desperate plague victims flocked the temples in searching of healing, infecting those still healthy that came to pray for deliverance. The surface of Flostak withered and died as the grand Imperial administrators sought an answer. A dozen Inquisition teams backed by Astartes Deathwatch squads descended on the world to seek the source. Three returned with no answers. The plague had no apparent origin. Talk began of _Exterminatus_.

As the unthinkable option was pondered, new reports began to flow up from the planet. The plague was slowing down, reversing course. In some cases it had disappeared entirely, wiped away in mere days as if it had never touched. Days and weeks stretched on and the number of reports continued to grow. A miraculous recession had struck the world. The sudden change puzzled scientists, priests, and rulers alike. And with every report came the mention of the young woman with a fiery cross and a winnow scythe. Survivors praised this mysterious woman for their deliverance, worshipping her even as one should worship He-On-The-Throne. The rulers began to put two and two together.

Rampant plague. Sudden and unexplained deliverance. Radical worship. Chaos.

Debate of _Exterminatus_ renewed with panicked vigor as a constant stream of reports praising the Lady of the Cross flooded the Imperial ships in orbit. Had Chaos latched a foothold in this world? The Inquisition, agitated by the loss of so many valuable members, urged a brutal and uncompromising stance. Let the world burn. Scour the planet until nothing remained but the purifying flames of damnation and death. What good was a world saved from death if it turned its eyes to the Ruinous Powers? Especially a world of such powerful manufacturing capabilities.

Two months after the first report of regression occurred, the planet bore no signs of the plague. Reports ceased from the surface, and Imperial officials held their breath as they waited to see what was occurring on the planet below. They waited for one day. Two days. Three days. It was on the fourth day that they received a message from the Lady of the Cross.

They never saw her, only heard her voice as transmitted by the vox. She spoke plainly like a country farmer, but her words burned with fervor and righteousness. Three simple sentences that stood down a mighty fleet of Inquisitors, Astartes and the Navy.

_The Faithless have been removed. Only those of pure faith remain. Let our Holy Father's servants return and reclaim this world for His glory._

Reclamation teams were sent at once. On the surface they found the ragged and pitiful remains of what had once been a mighty Imperial population. Priests were welcomed with tears, Guardsmen with song and jubilation. They demanded that right worship be restored before anything else, and the fanatical survivors thronged the churches. Man-made ravines were dug for the dead to be buried in. Whole cities were leveled and rebuilt. The world was made anew.

The Inquisition never did find the Lady of the Cross. They hunted for her with a hundred agents, seeking to discover the truth behind this mysterious savior of the world. In this, as with the source of the plague, they were foiled. She had disappeared, gone without a trace save for a name whispered in reverence whenever the plague was mentioned.

_He-On-The-Throne_ _and His Lady Caria._

Caria was a common name among the farmers of the eastern plains. Two years were spent in fruitless endeavor trying to discover the woman whose voice had saved the planet. After such time the Ordo surrendered the search. Perhaps she had never existed. Perhaps she had been a manifestation of the God-Emperor himself, intervening for the world. Those that spoke of the latter, even in passing, were ruthlessly censured. An unresolved rumor is a cancerous rumor. The only certainty the many researchers concurred on was this: Flostak had been saved, and no evidence of the Ruinous Powers had emerged. So, in honor of the mystery-savior, the Ecclesiarchy permitted the planetary worship of the demi-Saint Caria of Flostak, Lady of the Cross and His Radiant Salvation. No other Imperial world was permitted to revere this woman.

As time wore on, rumors died and faded to myth. Most forgot the particulars of Flostak's Second Ravaging, and all records of the near-_Exterminatus_ were mysteriously misplaced or destroyed. Worship of the God-Emperor remained strong, and the planet recovered just as it had from the First Ravaging. The Ecclesiarch made sure that worship of the Lady of the Cross never threatened the true worship. Legends of Saint Caria became just that, legends to tell children and strengthen their faith in the God-Emperor's plan.

Only one rumor persisted outside of Ecclesiarch control. It was a most troublesome conundrum, a legend that never failed to reemerge whenever the priests thought it quashed. The rumor of Saint Caria's return, and a third and final Ravaging.


	6. Hinterlight- The lucky ones already died

**Hinterlight**

Three meetings with Sister Celeste. Three sessions to recount the horrors of Kairn and the loss of so many faithful servants of the Emperor. The tale left a bitter taste on my tongue, in my mind. Between sessions I was given water and bread. They left me in a simple cell one room over, equipped with a bed and a dispenser where I could cleanse myself after eating. It was all very professional, very clean.

After the first session I felt queasy. After the second I nearly vomited in the dispenser. She had sat through it all so calmly, making notes here and there, asking only a handful of pertinent clarification questions. When I spoke of our brief imprisonment, and how the Sister Initiates had suffered, she didn't even grimace. She took it like a stone wall. Not a trace of emotion. I hated her for that.

When I finished the third session I was escorted to the cell and left alone. Harlon did not return; I had a feeling that Ravenor was giving him a stern talking-to. Or psyking-to. Or whatever the hell it was called when a psyker spoke directly into another's mind. If I saw him again I would be surprised.

Harlon. That man's head couldn't have been set straighter. A former bounty hunter and one of the few men I had ever been impressed with. He was Ravenor's bruiser, but he also had an intelligence that rivaled an Imperial War Tactician. Not always the smartest on the upflow, but when things mattered he could always see just how things had to go. I had enjoyed fighting alongside, and against, him. I never envied Ravenor for his services though. If Harlon had served under Lord Verne, he probably would be dead by now.

It struck me then, that terrible realization that I had been pushing out of my mind ever since coming into Lord Verne's services. I was the longest serving now. Adin was a few minutes behind, technically, and Kairi even more recent. The only that had been longer than me had been Munzi. Throne knew how long that tech-freak had served for Lord Verne. How had it gone? I had learned it once as far as I could, out of curiosity:

Sira Recalior. Munzi. Horkar Jemetree. Sune Warchild. Boudi. Doc Selene. Me and my Kasrkin. Yuu Gran. Citty Francison. Ecclesiarch Josephus. Lady Kairi. Pae and Lonn. Dondree.

There were more. I had nailed down Lord Verne's age as somewhere on the bad side of one hundred. He must have burned through even more, farther back then any of the ones I had served with knew about. The thought turned my stomach in disgust. Lord Verne hadn't been a man. He had been a cruel monster that accomplished his mission no matter the cost. Lives were but sand through his fingers. Brave men and women were sent to their deaths on the whims of his fancy, if he thought they would further his machinations. Just like that Justicar officer and her squad of Chasteners. To be near Lord Verne was to lie with Death.

That was why he had been such a damned effective Inquisitor. He got results, and he didn't bother trying to make them pretty. If a world needed to burn to stop a Genetstealer infestation, it would burn. If his protégée Interrogator had the capability to pull off a one-in-a-million suicide run, he applied for a new Interrogator. His reputation through the sector was one of results and carnage. That might have been why his officially sanctioned duties usually led us to battlefields, where the devastation he wrought was less disruptive to the system as a whole. That was all well and good for the Inquisition; use their rabid dog to take down the wild animals in the woods. It was my own thrice-damned bad luck that had led my unit to his claws. No room to blame anyone but myself there.

I grimaced as I began to trace back through my memories, remembering the faces of the dead. Nothing could ruin my mood faster. Still, I didn't have much better to do. So I recalled each one, remembered their quirks, their features, their deaths. Some of them I hadn't been there for. Those were the ones that haunted me. Dondree had bought it, somewhere on that Throne-forsaken prison world. In the hustle of things I had completely missed him. it was only his second mission for Lord Verne. Citty Francison. She had been the laughter on the team. Eight months of her presence on the _Greyworm_ had done wonders for my unit as they adjusted to life in the Inquisition. The Warsaw native had been a dancer before the Ork invasion. She did a different kind of dance for the men to show her gratitude for their defense of her homeworld. Never for me, I hadn't been interested. But she had given me that special smile, the one that the others had never been able to draw out. Adin had asked for my secret on that. I had never had balls to tell him that her smile was one of pity.

So many more. It seemed like Lord Verne went and restocked his retinue after every major investigation. Some had been around for so little time I had never even learned their names. I should have been ashamed of that. Yet I wasn't. They were just nameless faces in a sea of sacrifices to feed the Golden Throne.

Frack. Times like this made me get philosophical. I blinked away the morbid memories and concentrated on something sweeter.

Naturally, my thoughts drifted back to Kara as I lay on the bed, staring at the blank and tileless ceiling. It was good to see her again. I was surprised by how strongly I had responded to the sight of her in the mess hall. That brief contact had soothed my spirit like a balm on sunburn. Being around her just felt right. She felt safe. She had been like that on Flostak too, one of the few things that had kept me sane through the horrors of that world. Three, that was how many times I had seen her. But I had missed her as if she were a childhood sweetheart.

I spent a puzzled minute mulling over my feelings. What was it about her? She had gorgeous hair. A beautiful smile. A cute nose and lively eyes. Her body was to die for. The enthusiasm of a wardog on the hunt. The faith of a Blessed Sister. She wasn't the most perfect woman I had ever met. Something about her made her more though. Something made her special.

Maybe it was because she was the first one whose smile had not been a lie.

The door hissed open and Harlon stepped in. He had to duck slightly as he entered the small cell. The room had been made with thought towards naval crewmen, not man-giants like Kasrkin and whatever breed Harlon was. We were simply bigger than the average naval rating. Come to think of it, we had to duck quite a bit in the areas they kept me at.

One look at Harlon told me he had indeed been addressed for giving away the presence of my companions. His bald face wore a scowl and he kept his hands by his sidearm. The friendliness from yesterday was on active suppressant. Not one for talking today. I looked across to him and cocked an eyebrow.

"What is it?"

I made no move to sit or stand. I was tired, and getting out of this bed, uncomfortable as it was, was not high on my list of priorities. If things followed according to standards, they would try to deprive me of sleep during the investigation. I was determined to catch shuteye whenever I could. Didn't look like sleep was on the menu right now.

"Ravenor would like to speak to you."

"Would he now?" I sighed and pushed myself to a sitting position. "Well, how can I refuse such a polite offer? Should I wear my best, or is he going to be drawing blood?"

"It's not an interrogation" Harlon promised. "There will be food."

I hesitated and gave him a queer look. "He eats?"

"In a manner." Harlon shook his head. "But the food is for you. The bread and water was by the Sisters. We are less rigorous in our diets."

"A rock is less rigorous" I grumbled. The thought of real food had me intrigued. I slipped on my uniform grey jacket and took my time buttoning it up properly. That was a small mercy, having my uniform. They had no doubt scoured the _Greyworm_ from stem to stern after arriving, and had packed up and shipped everything owned by Lord Verne and us over to the _Hinterlight_. My extra uniforms were among the swag, and they had thoughtfully provided me with two sets of my clothes. I felt a lot better wearing them than wearing a naval uniform.

After what felt like an appropriately obnoxious time spent fiddling with my uniform I nodded to Harlon.

"Lead the way."

He didn't. Stepping back to let me exit the cell, he marched behind me and kept his hand on the holster of his sidearm. Throne! I had to get used to this constant suspicion. My gut told me that he was merely doing so because of orders, but that did not make it any better. Being marched around like a tried and convicted prisoner only strengthened the image that I was guilty. Of the murder of the Sisters… sure, in the strictest definition. But of heresy?

My stomach churned at the thought. Even thinking about the possibility made me sick.

We passed dozens of crewmen on the way, and some that were not. At least two of the mysterious Exorcist Space Marines. Their weapons were drawn but braced in a non-aggressive manner across their chests. I tried to stop and look at them for a second, taking in what sights I could before Harlon ordered me on. Their deep red armor seemed to push the eye away, and I felt the hairs rise on my arms and neck as they passed. Confused, I stopped and stared after them. That was… no, it couldn't be. Could it? Were they untouchables too? Untouchable Space Marines. When in Holy Terra had that happened?

"What the hell are those things" I whispered, mouth growing dry. Harlon refused to comment, and shoved me forward with a strong hand on my shoulder. I did not resist. Knowing the Inquisition, that knowledge might earn me a summary execution for the sake of my sanity. As if I hadn't seen enough already.

A gaggle of eight Sisters in various rank and garb crossed our path ear the hangar. Three wore power armor and carried boltguns, the five others wore simple cobalt robes that bore familiar symbols. These young girls were fellows of the Initiates lost on Kairn. I felt sorry for them, hiding their loss behind strained masks of indifference as they marched past under the armored Sisters' care. My guess was that they were heading to the infirmary to aid the wounded being brought up from Kairn. The armored Sisters glared at me with so much venom that Harlon tensed and pulled back the hem of his jacket, leaving his sidearm open and visible. It was a paltry weapon against the power armor, but Sisters had the peculiar desire to leave their faces unprotected when in armor. It made no sense, tactically. Equip yourself in armor that can stop a tank round, but keep your face open and vulnerable to any muck with a lasgun and decent aim. They went into battle only half-dressed, so to speak. Apparently it worked though, because there were many stories of the Sisters of Battle triumphing against the vile enemies of the Imperium.

We had no trouble from them, although it was obvious they wanted nothing more than to shoot me where I stood. Harlon never turned his back on them, remaining by my side with his eyes on their armored forms until they disappeared around the intersection. Then, with a nearly silent sigh of relief, he turned back and told me to hurry up.

A few clusters of surviving Justicars passed us from time to time, escorted by ensigns of the _Hinterlight_. Most passed by without noticing us, too intent on wherever they were ordered to. One or two grinned when they saw me. A tall man with one arm wrapped in a sling and half of his face covered in bandages slapped my arm as he passed by. I pivoted defensively, hands going up for a punch, but the man was grinning. He held out his uninjured hand.

"Heard one of you made it" the man said. "Sergeant Mauley. Was on the ground force that hit that bastard's compound."

"Glad to see some of you made it" I replied, a natural grin spreading across my lips. The smile faded as I looked past him at the others, all injured and bandaged like men thrown through a blender. Several had seen amputations, one had his whole head covered in wraps except for eye and nose slits. Burn victim. How many of them had it worse off? How many of their comrades had died?

"Some of us made it" I repeated in a softer, quieter voice.

The man looked ready to say something else, but Harlon excused us and hurried me away. His jaw was set firmly, the kind of move where a man is trying to hide his true emotions. I wondered if he would have let me stay and talk had Ravenor not been expecting me. Harlon put a lot of value on loyalty, honor, and courage. Those wounded Justicars had all three in excess. I had rarely seen braver soldiers.

"Word about you is spreading" Harlon muttered. I glanced back at him in surprise.

"About me?"

"About your team. The heroes of Kairn, some of the Justicars are calling you. After killing Shechem, the revolt began to fracture and fall apart. He must have had some kind of psychic web-control over his force, like a hive mind. Once he was out of the picture their coordination fell apart, gangs wars rekindled, and they mostly lost interest in throwing themselves at heavily armed Justicars like they had been. Saved a whole lot of lives and made our job infinitely easier."

"Killing his _daemon_ made the job infinitely easier" I growled. "And that wasn't us. That was you. But what do you mean about a hive mind? Is that even possible?"

He gave me a hard look. "If you're still asking that question, you clearly haven't been paying attention to your time in the Inquisition. Anything is possible when the…" he frowned as if the next words would infect him. "The Ruinous Powers are involved. It's just a theory; there are other possible explanations. The hive mind concept is merely the most interesting and most probable. I overheard that psyker Space Marine talking about it. He said he saw something similar before when fighting Chaos armies. Killing the head honcho made the Chaos forces disintegrate. Like it ripped their spine out or something."

"Whatever works." I shrugged. "What exactly do the rumors say about us?"

"That you led a desperate charge against a thousand daemons and your team defeated a greater daemon in close combat."

"Not a Daemon Pr-"

Harlon hissed for me to be quiet. I nodded, suddenly too-aware of the few naval crewmen in sight. It was easy to forget we were surrounded by lowly beings that did not understand the horrors we faced. Just saying it could drive one of these clueless servants insane.

"Just a greater daemon" Harlon repeated firmly. "That's all we are allowing."

"Ah." I chuckled softly. "At least you allow that we killed it."

"You left an impressive enough trail of bodies we had to give you something" he said with a shrug. "From the front doors of the citadel to that back courtyard, the floors were littered with slain monsters. Saw more than a few of the good guys scattered among them too."

"Too many." I took a deep breath. "What did you think of the chamber-guards?"

"That was impressive" he admitted. "Their corpses were half-dissolved by the time we showed up, but by the size… how did you survive that?"

"Have you seen my hotshot?"

He shook his head.

"I've got an underslung attachment on it, custom piece. Pulse crossbow, and I load on psy-stakes."

He did not understand. I did not blame him. That kind of ammunition was ultra-rare, more of a Witch Hunter tool than Inquisition.

"Consider a meltabomb, then replace the explosives with concentrated psy-energy, then set it in a launcher that can throw it up to one hundred meters. Hell's worth of killing power, no mess. Especially effective against daemons and psykers."

Harlon led me to a nondescript hatch a little ways aft of the bridge. I stepped inside cautiously, blinking several times as my vision adjusted. The room was brightly lit compared to the dank ship passages. The walls were blank save for a single portrait over a desk, Madam Preest I assumed. The desk was bare, the cabinet-lockers to the left closed. It was as if they had stripped the room prior to my arrival. The only sign of life came from the three figures around the table in the center of the room. Ravenor's force chair hovered in mockery of a chair on the one side, a Justicar officer and Sister Celeste sat on either side. The one open chair lay directly in front of me, back to the hatch. Even that had to be for purpose, I knew. Put my back to the room's entrance, set me off balance whenever it opened.

"Sir," I offered a stiff bow to the Inquisitor. "You summoned me."

"**Sit**" the vox-speakers told me. I did not look at the others as I took my seat. The table had been set already, and I had to resist the urge to feats my eyes on the prepared spread. Roast meats slathered in gravy, warm sweetbread loaves, a salad of cabbage and some blue leaf I had never seen before. The centerpiece of the table contained a stack of ginger wafers and Froze-nuggets. A pitcher of amasec sat within arms' reach, waiting to fill the empty glass by my plate. I was sure it was all delicious. The Justicar officer had already begun eating, picking at his food in a formal but hungry fashion. The Sister had taken bread and water, as I had suspected she would. She regarded me with remarkable disinterest compared to during the questioning sessions. I might as well have not been there for all the attention she gave me.

I waited for Ravenor to give me permission to eat. He did not say anything for a while, and I felt subtle nudges in my mind that filled me with confusion. Having never been psychically touched before, I did not know what it felt like. This might have been it, and I tried to call to mind the conditioning exercises Adin had told me about. Having never practiced them, I was sure they were fairly unimpressive. But it seemed to catch Ravenor's attention, because the irritation faded and Ravenor spoke.

"**I am not invading your mind**" he promised. "**Eat, if you are hungry. The meal will grow cold soon**."

Pacing myself through delicacy meals had never been a strong point of mine. I finished my plate before the Justicar officer and poured myself two fingers of the amasec. The Sister's eyes flicked to the drink in disapproval, but she said nothing. I used the drink to clear my throat before addressing the Inquisitor.

"You asked to see me, Sir."

"**I did. Your initial sessions with Sister Celeste have concluded. We will be progressing to more intentional investigation of your person.**"

"Understood, Sir." I glanced at the Sister. She returned my gaze and offered something akin to a nod. "Is this the part where you tell me the gloves are coming off?"

"**No. This is the part where I inform you that we will be delving into matters that you would deem personal, private. I am sure you are understanding that we will have no respect for your privacy in this investigation. Hiding anything, no matter its relevance or importance, will be seen as a sin of omission. Where there is sin, there is the shadow of heresy.**"

"Thank you for the warning." Setting the glass down, I studied the force chair. It was beautiful work, truly. I wondered what it hid beneath the impenetrable obsidian hide. What monster was Ravenor that he presented himself in such a chair?

"**An injury**" Ravenor said. I started in surprise. "**That is what you were wondering. I was badly injured and this chair is what keeps me alive**."

"…oh."

"**You should also be informed, as it will be pertinent to this investigation, that this action on Kairn is not the only instance on which you will be tried.**"

"What do you mean?" I found myself refilling the glass to the brim with amasec. Nervous habit. I finished filling the glass and set the pitcher down. My eyes drifted over it and I made sure to not reach for it again.

"**Our records here are, and will be, sadly incomplete. There is evidence enough to condemn you, but such evidence is only half of a picture.**"

"And this picture is…"

"**Inquisitor Verne has always attracted unusual helpers.**" Ravenor continued as if I had not interrupted."**Rogue Mechanicus adepts, mutant assassins… he certainly had a fixation with your people the Cadians. Your record with Verne is quite impressive. In the first year of your services you performed admirably and with unparalleled zeal.**"

"You say that as if something changed."

"**Didn't it?**"

If the vox-speaker could carry emotion I would have sworn he was patronizing me. The Sister and Justicar had remained conspicuously silent through this little talk, attention focused on me. They were soaking this up. Perhaps Ravenor had thought to kill two birds with one stone and brought them along to hear this all firsthand rather than rely on them to catch it all in briefings. I didn't like the way they were staring, and I didn't like whatever it was that the Inquisitor was insinuating. Dancing around the bush would get us nowhere.

"You said you are investigating at least two instances" I said, fighting to keep irritation out of my voice. "What is the other one?"

"**There are some who think your descent into heresy began five years ago**" Ravenor announced. I wondered why he bothered using the royal 'We.' Everyone here knew he was speaking of himself only. "**We will bring your actions on the exterminated world of Flostak to judgment as well**."

"You are judging me for an action five years old" I asked, incredulous. I had not expected that. My surprise showed so clearly that the Sister glanced back at the Inquisitor for confirmation. At least I had the frame of mind to notice that and chalk it down. Always gather the facts. Even when the shit is hitting the fan, know how many blades are spinning.

"**Is it merely coincidence that Adept Munzi began referring to you as the ****_Butcher of Flostak_**** afterwards?**"

My shoulder slumped somewhat. That bastard. I wondered how the nickname had arisen and stuck. Leave it to that bolt-brained, servitor-humping son of a cogitator to…

"Butcher of Flostak" the Justicar repeated, eyebrows furrowing. "This is the man who destroyed Flostak?"

"Only Inquisitors or similarly high-ranking officials of the Imperium can issue such an order" I told him. It might have been considered speaking out of turn, but I did not care at the moment. My hands felt ready to tremble as I thought about that damned world. Literally damned. Lord Verne had given the order to turn that bustling, faithful world into a scorched deadworld. One could say it was my fault, in a circumspect way. I wouldn't have changed my actions if I had known the result. What I did was right. And a world had burned because of it.

"**The particulars of ****_Flostak Exterminatorum_**** are not in judgment. The judgment lies on your actions before. You did many things on Flostak, Sergeant Kane. Several are questionable if even justifiable to any but the most radical of Inquisitors**."

"That's all fine and dandy for you to say." I held in the snarl that wanted to burst from my throat. "We did what we had to."

"**Yes, and at a terrible cost. Have you considered, Sergeant Kane, how easily one can fall to the influence of the Ruinous Powers? It is a very subtle thing. A right action here, and extreme action there. None are immune to the seductions of Chaos**."

I held my silence to that. I had thought about it quite a lot. All Cadians thought about it. So close to the Eye of Terror, cults rose like weeds from every Kasr on a painfully consistent basis. The Interior Guard had to be on constant alert to put down such insurrections. Every Cadian had it hammered into them that Chaos was a deadly sweet poison.

Had I bitten that fruit? At some point down the line, had I sold my soul? No, I swore to myself. I sold my soul to the Golden Throne a long time ago, and nothing could tear it away. If I had ever tasted that fruit, I had found it putrid and rotten to the core and spat it out.

I missed the chapel onboard the _Greyworm_.

"**Sergeant Kane?**"

"A lot of things happened on Flostak" I said, speaking softly. "A lot of things that I regret. A lot of friends that I regret."

"**We will speak more of this tomorrow**." His force chair backed away from the table. "**This is Arbiter-General Rogan Calpurnia. He is leading the investigation of Kairn's revolt. As the highest-ranking member of the Adeptus Arbites I thought it appropriate to bring him into the particulars of this investigation. Our answers could give him some as well.**"

"They could" I agreed, though I did not quite see how. "Arbiter-General."

He nodded curtly. His face was steely and sharp like a hawk, with a nose that could have sliced butter and coal-black eyes. A well-healed scar stretched from his left eye to his chin, and his eye had been replaced by a bionic. His posture spoke volumes about the iron-strict discipline he subjected himself to. The man had to be in his late nineties, but rejuvenat processes left him hale and hearty as a man half his age. He was large enough to wrestle an Ogryn. Probably mean enough too.

"The prisoner responsible for the rioting, Kyle Shechem. He was a native of Flostak, correct?"

"So he claimed" I replied. My eyes darted to the force chair and back. Was the Arbiter-General not aware of the daemonic infestation?

"**He was. The name Kyle Shechem was an alias.**"

I thought back to our encounter with the man in the ruined citadel. Kairi's words sprang vividly to mind.

_That face. We knew him, Kane. We knew him!_

If I had really met that shit-stain, I was sure I would have blown his brains out the instant I met him.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"**Part of this investigation is to determine whether or not you aided his escape before Flostak's destruction.**"

I stared at the force chair, not quite sure I heard him correctly.

"What?"

"**There are records that lend credence to your aiding and abetting his flight from the planet**."

Now my hands were really shaking. I took a deep, calming breath and reached for the amasec pitcher. Suddenly the thought of liquid courage did not seem so weak.


	7. Flostak- Sira

**Flostak**

Leon was the first off the puddlejumper. His eyes swept left-to-right across the open platform, drinking in the sights and sounds as he hunted for threats. It had been a quiet drop to the surface; Captain Drogtha's privileged codes made the descent harry-free and blessedly swift. Access to those codes came at a price, however. The _Greyworm's_ presence had been made known, and while nothing tied them to it, the official record could be accessed by unfriendly eyes. Leon wondered how widespread Captain Drogtha's reputation was.

Not widespread enough to earn a welcome party, at least. They had set down in the easternmost of the five spaceports in the capitol. It was a hideaway place, mostly reserved for privileged but unsavory types passing through. Mercenaries, grey-traders, radicals, and smugglers landed here so that the elite of Flostak could pretend their city was as pristine and beautiful as it looked. A sizable security force stood guard outside the spaceport, but inside anything went. Some ancient decree granted sanctuary to the interior of the spaceport from governmental scrutiny. They could have had a blood-orgy for… best not to think about it. Personally, Leon thought it was stupid and inviting trouble to have a whole spaceport dedicated to this kind of thing. All kinds of dangerous people could enter the planet from this little spaceport. After all, they were.

"Something wrong" Adin asked, easing down the ramp after him. Leon shook his head.

"What fracking moron names the capitol after the planet? They could have at least added _City_ on the end. Flostak City of Flostak sounds a lot less dense than Flostak of Flostak."

"At least it is easy to remember."

Adin strode past him and went to fetch a dolly. As he wandered off in the direction of the tower Leon began to give the area a second, closer scrutiny. The spaceport had nothing to raise eyebrows. Space for five medium-sized atmofreighters on the three conical platforms. The platforms connected into a three story station centered by a jutting control tower. Looming overhangs provided shade for the private ground crews that ran like ants over the interior hangar. Some private corporation supplied the crew for the spaceport, also part of that ancient deal. Leon trusted these men even less than he would have trusted governmental stooges. There was no telling what kind of evil had passed through this spaceport. Half of them probably owed their allegiance to something far worse than the Golden Throne.

A powerful guncutter had set down fifty meters to their right on the next platform. Its sleek frame, painted amber but rusted brown in parts, loomed menacingly over their puddlejumper like a wolf stalking a rabbit. Missile ports on both wings, a triple-barreled autocannon under the cockpit, las-mounts on the wingtips. It had firepower that rivaled a military fighter, and the uniformed crewmembers patrolling beside it carried lascarbines with professional postures. The light blue patterned of a dual-stingered scorpion held a proud place over their breastplates. Not a mercenary group that he recognized, but mercenary nonetheless. A pair of non-uniformed members hung near the front of the ship, arguing and gesturing at the cockpit in some frantic battle of wills. One had some sort of khaki jumpsuit stripped to the waist, revealing powerful sweat and grime-stained muscles that bulged with every twitch of his arms. The other, a slight mouse-faced woman with a hook nose, held her ground and screeched in remarkably quiet tones. One of the guards caught him staring and shifted off of the container he had been leaning against. Leon nodded in his direction and looked away. Not a threat.

On the other side of their platform rested a bulky cargo transport with the name _Eulogies' Last_ painted on the nose. Underneath was a rather crude and obscene drawing of a voluptuous and barely-clothed woman kneeling over a gravestone. Leon looked past the drawing and studied the craft. Unarmed, or so it seemed. He noted the exit hatches and the lack of movement around the transport. It had been landed before they reached the spaceport. The pilot might have gone on in to negotiate holding fees. A place like this, with its unique security qualities, must charge exorbitantly.

"Monsieur Kane."

Leon half-turned and looked back up the ramp. Lord Verne descended the ramp in muted fashion, cloak swept over his body like a blanket-shroud. Munzi walked by his side, and Sune behind. They reached the bottom and took in the sight of the spaceport.

"Not as busy as I would have expected" Lord Verne said, face blank as always. His eyes drifted around until they settled on Leon. "Monsieur Kane?"

It was going to take him a while before he got used to that. His whole life had been nothing but ranks and honorifics. To have someone address him as a civilian… it did not sit well with him. This whole situation did not sit well with him. Thankfully, he was spared from answering as Adin returned with a gravsled in tow.

"Ready to load up" he announced. The plucky sergeant appeared to be slipping into his new role with ease. Jenkus too, as evidenced by the sorry state of his coveralls as he began dragging the containers from the puddlejumper's hold. He had made his own little adjustments during the ride down, smearing grease through his hair and wrinkling his outfit. In the short time of his working he had managed to transform his smug military posture into something more befitting an overworked grunt whose life consisted of moving heavy things from point A to point B.

The Kasrkin and Sune began loading the containers while Lord Verne, Munzi, Boudi and Selene stood idly by, watching with feigned interest. He knew that the Inquisitor had run the nearby ships through the same scrutiny he had. Once they were ready to set off Leon resumed the lead. Their team proceeded down the platform and into the hangar section where they found themselves surrounded by too-eager work crews offering to lend their aid. Leon shoved them aside without a word, his blood rising as the mob of waving arms and leering faces crowded them. Any one of them could have a weapon. They were skinny with drawn faces, underfed. Large eyes burned with desperate ferocity as they attempted to sell their services pushing the dolly, carrying their gear, leading the way. Each had a thick blast collar around their throats. Slaves, Leon realized. Slaves brought in to do the menial work. Any pay they received came from the ship crews offering tips. He dared to glance back at the others and bark the order to keep moving. Selene had already begun digging in her hip pouch to throw some paltry coins into the crowd to draw them off. Ordinarily a good idea, but these men looked half-crazed. If coin hit the floor they would find themselves in the middle of a frenzy, one that could easily spill over to include themselves if the slaves went berserk. He found that option likely. In that instant he had a choice to make.

Leon drew his shotpistol and shot the slave directly in front of him, hurling him backwards into his fellows. The sudden explosion of noise shocked the slaves into silence. For half a moment they gaped at the man's corpse. Someone whimpered, and as if it were a signal the slaves scattered. They rushed off as if afraid he would continue shooting, leaving them alone and unhassled in the time it took him to load a new round into the shotpistol.

"Move" he ordered, fighting to keep the military bark out of his tone. No one argued. Only Selene appeared shaken by the show. Disgust and horror flowed through her eyes as she gingerly stepped over the fallen slave. Boudi stared in twisted fascination, head turning this way and that until the body disappeared underneath the gravsled.

No one in the hangar had paid the incident more than passing attention. Several armed men could be seen slipping their weapons back into holsters. With men like this, gunfire almost always signaled trouble. Once they saw what had happened they dismissed it all without a second thought. Just a slave's death. Those could be replaced with no effort.

When they reached the doors to enter the station Lord Verne called Leon over. Leon drew himself up before the Inquisitor, pausing only to see if any of the slave's blood had splashed on the containers.

"Yes… Vernon?"

Vernon Partridge was the Inquisitor's chosen moniker for this mission. It sounded utterly ridiculous in Leon's throat, but he supposed that was partially the point. Deflect attention. Most men would not see threat in a fancily dressed fop named after a dinner-bird. He was the only one with a false name, because he was the only one who was in danger of being made. Everyone else settled with their own names, though they had been warned to use them as little as possible, or at the least to stick to either first name or last name and not both.

"I have a package waiting in the west-warehouse, number 13, sent here ahead of our arrival. Please retrieve it and meet us at the front entrance."

"Underst- sure thing, boss." Leon winced inwardly at his slip. Even though there were none in hearing range, he needed to adjust. Losing a life's form of speech was taking far longer than he would have liked. Military cant drilled since childhood would not go away without a fight. "What am I looking for?"

"You will know it when you see it" Lord Verne replied. He paused for a moment and added, almost as an afterthought. "But since you are clearly out of your element and a bit off-balance I will make it easy for you. Look for _Sira_."

"Sira" Leon repeated. He repeated the name again under his breath. Easy enough to remember. "I'll go fetch it then."

"Take Selene with you. She could use the exercise."

The medicae drew over and listened intently as Lord Verne repeated his command. She accepted the task with a subtle smile. The name Sira drew the smile, Leon noticed. That gut feeling of queasiness filtered through his mind. Just how long ago had this package been sent to Flostak. Had he known about this investigation for a while? Was it an ordinary hideway care package? Answers would come in the warehouse.

Strutting into the servitor entry, Leon followed the highly-polished guide lights that indicated Warehouse 13. Pockets of slaves or cleaners stood about in their various tasks, all making a good show of not paying attention. Leon counted at least three sets of eyes sneaking looks their way. Two petty observers, perhaps gawkers or generic informants; the other had the practiced indifference of a mole. The sharpness of the mole's turn-away informed Leon that he did not think them worthy of his attentions. He must be here for someone else. Leon set his hand on the holster of his shotpistol again, for comfort. He had four knives tucked into various locations on his person in case things went south. The shotpistol was great for an initial volley but it lacked a very crucial element: reusability. One shot left the weapon empty, and a reload took up to five seconds between trigger pulls. Any fights here would rely on knives.

"Do you see trouble" Selene asked, mouth hardly moving. Her posture spoke of an exhausted elder, someone who should have been living out their last days in a hospital or among family. It was an act, Leon knew, but she pulled it off so convincingly he almost believed that she was not acting. Her usually pristine medical jumpsuit had been exchanged for dull street clothes and a tattered shawl that reached from her head to her waist. A shapeless felt hat covered her silvery hair, packed tightly into a bun underneath.

"Not yet." He glanced back at her for a moment. "So what's _Sira_?"

"You will see soon" she replied. A delighted grin crossed her face at the fact that he was in the dark on a secret. He had a reputation for being, Boudi called it 'pouty' when left out of the loop. Leon thought that a little overdramatic, but he did recognize his own impatience with being in the dark on things. People died from lack of communication.

"Give a shout-out when you find it" he told her. "Because I have no fracking clue what we're looking for."

Warehouse 13 could be found at the far end of the spaceport, second-nearest to the primary entrance. One of the few warehouses that opened to both sides, it was rarely used by the travelers that came through. The reasons were obvious, and Leon entered with misgivings scratching at his mind. Lord Verne would not have been so careless as to leave something here, where a casual thief could break in and rummage about. Whatever it was, it must have been delivered recently. Probably by their mysterious informant.

Finding said object proved a daunting task. The warehouse was not very long, but it went down several stories, anchored in the corners by metal-grated stairwells. A single service elevator stood in the center for load transportation. Leon chose one of the stairwells. Even if this area was supposed to be calm, he did not want to broadcast his location. He knew the stories about paranoid smugglers who booby trapped shared structures for fear of their cargo being discovered. Walking into a slaved combat servitor on PROTECT mode ranked pretty far down on his list of things to do that day.

They passed all manner of illegal goods on their way down. Some were hidden behind warning labels of deadly disease, others sat proud in blast-proof crates that announced their contents. Vile things, poisonous things. Warp-cursed mirrors and the spilt blood of ancient daemons. Heretical weapons, alien eggs. Bodies frozen in cryogenesis. The scorched banner of the 97th Tallarn Raiders. Fragments of an Astartes Forcepike. Archaic war marchines. They were in the devil's workshop.

What could Lord Verne have placed in such a den of vileness?

"Are we getting warmer" he asked at the first sub-level. The alleys of storage were dimly lit by flickering headlights. He took a testing step forward. A hollow buzzing rang from the lights and they blinked up to full power, though in many places the lights failed utterly. The effect left part of the walkways well lit and easy to see, the others cloaked in void-like darkness. Leon drew a handheld lamp from his pocket and shined down the way. Empty, no seedy individuals or potential enemies.

"Not as far as I can tell" Selene answered. "I believe Sira will be found on the lower levels. Always preferred that."

He did not know if she referred to Lord Verne or the secretive package. Choosing to go with her instinct, he took them straight down to the bottom level. Six flights down left them on a cold and damp duracrete floor. Few lights remained active, and those emitted sickly yellow glows that only accentuated the darkness around them. Leon smelled rot and mildew as if bodies had been abandoned here. His lamp traced careful patterns, checking the floor for signs of trap or death.

The darkness receded as Selene drew her own lamp. Facing the darkness without fear or trepidation, she pointed to Leon's right. "Search that way. I will search over here. Remember, _Sira_."

"I remember" Leon grumbled. He kept one eye on the medicae until the light of her lamp was swallowed in gloom. Shaking his head, Leon began to pace into the nearest aisle. The storage here smelled of nothing but disease and horror. Within minutes of leaving the stairwell he came across a pair of desiccated corpses. The bodies had decayed to the point he could identify little except their method of death. Both skulls featured a prominent, unnatural hole in the back. Low on the frame, near the point where spine attached to brain. Executions. He moved on.

A massive cargo container lay open for inspection on his left, the side having collapsed and buckled outwards as time wore the heavy metal from its screws. Three Leman Russ battletanks could have fit into the storage container. Out of sheer curiosity Leon took a step up to the warped sides and took a look with his lamp.

Some ancient trader had packed an entire shrine into the container. A golden statue of He-On-The-Throne stared back at him, shining like fire from the lamp, undulled by countless years of neglect and dust. Around the statue lay all of the holistic items expected in such a shrine: plates, censers, an altar, a podium with imprint for placing Scripture. His eyes drifted to a locked case on the altar. Purity seals decorated the lock and the shine of blessed oil remained thick on its seams. Light seeped around it, bending and curling to draw the eye inwards. Dust swirled around it and over it but not on the case itself. It remained untouched and unsullied from its exile to this dark and gruesome underworld prison.

Leon found himself standing before it, one hand outstretched. His fingers brushed the top of the case with tenderness and humility. A foreign energy pulsed through his fingers, beckoning and calling for him. He frowned, uncertain. Not psychic energy. He was immune to that. But this was… something different then. An urging to draw the case welled inside him, to touch it and open and see what lay inside. Like voices in his head, scratching whispers of alien tongues. Soothing voices, welcoming voices. Promise of a weapon, a divine wrath to smite the infidel.

"What are you" he asked. He tried to draw his hand away, but his fingers slipped to the purity seal and ran the delicate silk weave through calloused hands. Light and feathery as air itself, radiating quiet strength and devotion. To break the seal required but a twitch of his thumb and forefinger. To undo the sacred seals and see what lay inside but the whim of his hand. He closed his eyes and listened to the silence of the sub-level. Not a creature was stirring, not a creature ever had. How long had this relic, for he was sure it was one, been laid bare for the taking. And no one had stumbled by to find it. The mystery of human nature. Hide the deepest, darkest secrets, but Luck was the Queen of Fate. All he had to do was break the seal.

When he opened his eyes, He-On-The-Throne was watching. As he studied the statue he saw the golden mouth twisted in disapproval. He saw emerald eyes glaring with challenge. Was it his imagination or was the finger of the right hand pointing, at him? Did the God-Emperor judge him even now, watching him in this dark hole where no living thing had stood for Throne knew how long? The Eternal Gaze gutted his soulless body and asked him the simple question that he should have asked himself.

_Am I worthy?_

He knew why no one had taken the case, why no man had dared break the seal. He knew why it had remained here, open to any passerby, and not been taken up. The All-Father stood vigil in this dank tomb of evil. The dust in the air came from the dust at his feet, ash smoothed by time and the trod of others. To break the seal unworthy was to die. Many had tried, perhaps many had opened and gazed inside. The case stayed, the relic stayed. Time passed on, men came and died. The relic would not be taken until the worthy soul endured the Guardian of Man's test.

Leon picked up the case and slipped it into an internal pocket of his jacket. He reached down to the nearer censer and lit the burner. Holy incense emerged, pure as the day it had been manufactured. Bowing to He-On-The-Throne, Leon backed away and exited the storage container. The statue smiled after him.

**Warehouse 13**

"Doc?"

An hour of searching bore no fruits. He moved back towards the stairwell, having found nothing on the southern side and knowing that he would not find Sira here. The medicae might have had better luck, though in the spacious cavern he doubted that as well. A platoon of accountants could spend a month cataloging everything here. Sira would have to find them.

"I am over here" came the reply. It was faint and far-off. Leon began to home in on her voice. A ways off still. He checked his timepiece for the eighth time. Lord Verne must have cleared customs by now. He did not want to leave the Inquisitor waiting, but he did not want to return empty-handed either. Another half hour, to get consideration for effort. Then they would return to the land of the living.

He walked another few minutes in her direction until he began to lose track of where she had called out from. Cursing the impenetrable night of the sub-level, he shrugged further into his jacket and looked around.

"Sound off, Doc."

A silky voice crept out of the darkness behind him. Honey-tongued words from a tittering mouth echoed and slithered against his ears.

"A Kasrkin searching for his medicae. So quaint."

Leon drew his shotpistol as he spun. The briefest glimpse of violet eyes winked out of existence in the dark. The presence withdrew, the words faded to pathetic echoes gurgling in his head. Leon pressed himself against the nearest solid material he could find and shined his lamp down the passage. Empty as when he had passed through. His breath rasped harshly in the still air. That someone had snuck so close to him without being noticed struck at his nerves as surely as a chainblade. What kind of creature could do that? His sense for danger had never failed him like that before.

The one thought repeated in his mind. Something stalked him. And if him, Selene was in danger too. Where the frack was she?

He began hustling down the passage, lamp extinguished to give his eyes time to adjust. With his genetic enhancements night vision should have come easily. The purity of the darkness here prevented that. He was just as blind after a minute as he had been at the start. His shotpistol remained drawn and at his side, ready to fire at a moment's notice. If the watcher showed herself he would shoot her square and leave the questions for later. He could not afford taking her alive in a place like this.

"Watch the Kasrkin run, scurry like an ant" the voice mocked, from one passage over. Leon ignored it, concentrated on trying to detect Selene. The stalker gave a throaty, sensuous laugh. "Run along to your nurse, soldier-boy. Let's play a game, see who can find her first."

Leon spat a cursed and fired. He aimed blind, shooting between heavily-stacked crates. The voice went silent for a moment, and he wondered if he had been lucky enough to hit her. No such luck.

"Temper, temper" the voice chided. She spoke in amusement, perhaps even with admiration. Leon did not know and did not care. "Take a left."

Before he realized he had turned he was a dozen feet down the side-passage, rushing past aisle-ends with the stairwell in sight. The voice crowed in approval and grew louder, pounding after him. He did not look behind. Running full-tilt, silent as a shadow. He did not even bother reloading. Instead he drew a knife in each hand and prayed he would make it to the light.

"Too far" she scolded, seemingly beside him now. "We don't want to spoil all the fun."

As he crossed the last aisle Leon pulled himself short. Two massive creatures stood guard on the stairwell, barring the way. The heavy musk of canine fur flooded his nose, and he had to draw himself back to avoid recoiling at the sight of the most hideous monstrosities he had ever seen. They stood on hind legs in mockery of man, two and a half meters in height with clawed hands and dark fur covering their bodies. Wolf-faces sneered at him, one with a colossal sword and the other with a spear with a glowing blade. Growls flecked with filth and spittle warned him to come no closer. He did not know if they were mutant or daemon, but danger reeked from their shadowy forms.

Leon swore and brandished his knives. The one in his right hand was the standard Cadian bayonet, in his left a Necromundan death-razor. Both vicious weapons in the hands of an expert.

"Come on then" he snarled, dropping to a combat posture. Gesturing with his bayonet knife, he challenged them to advance. His mind raced with his options. He guessed they were powerful. Their size and stance showed rippling muscles. If they were slow, a slice of the death-razor was all he would need to break away and find Selene. If they were fast…

Just a nick with the death-razor. He started forward and took a deep breath.

"Now, now, that isn't very nice. You could hurt someone with that."

The voice giggled just inches from his shoulder. Leon slashed low and high, whirling in a defensive spin that should have cut throat and stomach. The stalker smiled at him from behind her half-face veil. A cloak of darkness rested on her shoulders, absorbing the light and rendering her body no more than a vague shadow. Her form shifted in flowing motions like currents of water, gliding around his blades as if he had barely moved. Lusciously tanned cheekbones and those violet eyes were his only glimpse at the woman under the veil. Those eyes gleamed with mirth, her cheeks dimpled in a lewd grin. Tut-tutting his attack she drew her own weapon, a hilt without a blade, and waggled it as if a teacher scolding a lazy student.

"Such ingratitude! And here I was, showing you the way out. What's the matter, Kasrkin? Why so glum?"

"Who the blazes are you" Leon demanded, barely restraining himself from shouting. He set his feet and lunged towards her, bayonet knife leading. She was there, and then she wasn't. Appearing to his back with a dramatic frown, she smacked his elbow and took a few dance-like steps further into the light.

The greater light revealed no more of her. Her cloak soaked the yellow rays into the void, making her an unnatural blot of shapely darkness against the duracrete. Leon stared at her for a long minute, trying to judge her stance. It was impossible. She might as well have been a Callidus Shadow for all the uncertainty her cloak generated.

"That would be telling" she murmured. Her arm stretched out to her side and the hilt without a blade became a sword, a glowing energy saber that shimmered in the light. Leon took his chance and leapt forward, hoping her reaction would be slowed by her dramatic unsheathing. Admiring the blade could come later after he cut the bitch's head off.

Her saber registered as little more than a flicker of light as she threw an expert parry that deflected both of his blades. Startled, but not unbalanced, Leon kicked out for her legs, hoping to trip her or cause her to stumble. Her felt the lightest scrape of his boots against the insides of her thighs, then she shifted to one side and clamped his outstretched leg in with vice-like pressure. The strength in her legs was incredible, locking him in the precarious position of having one foot stuck in the air. Improvising, Leon pushed off the ground and kicked for her chest. She released his leg with a sigh and sidestepped his blow. Lacking contact, his foot continued on and he slammed down on the duracrete.

The stalker-woman made no move to attack him on the ground. Scrambling to his feet, Leon launched a wild backhand to clear space and tried to regain his momentum. He slashed left, then right, then thrust with one knife as he timed the counter with his other. The dazzling flicker of her blade crisscrossed three times, batting his knives away like he was a child. His trap-blade she caught in the crook of her elbow, death-razor hovering just an eyelash away from her eyeball. She gave an exhilarated cry and wrenched his wrist, forcing him to drop the blade. Her saber flickered down then up, smashing the bayonet from his hand and slapping him under the chin with the flat of her blade. The impact snapped his head back like an Ogryn's punch. A sharp-heeled shoe planted itself on his chest and shoved him backwards. He rolled onto his back and came up with his other two blades drawn. These knives, more like glorified steak knives compared to the bayonet, would grant him no more protection than he had before.

"Who are you" he asked again. His breath came with trouble, and he felt every rib in his chest aching from her kick. She struck with the force of an Astartes. A buckling in his knee wreaked havoc with his stance, and he realized she had delivered some kind of pressure-strike to his leg at some point.

"So many answers to that question" she teased. Raising her saber in a parody of an officer's salute, she took a few steps forward. It took effort to not back away. The mirth had started to fade, and a terrible seriousness replaced the exultant gleam. "I'm like you."

"Cadian?" Leon shifted his weight, trying to feel the state of his injured leg. He would be able to move on it, but it was weak. Whatever she had done to it left it grossly fragile. Another kick or the like and he feared he would have to fight on one leg only.

"Are you asking or telling me?" Her saber flashed out once, twice, three times. Leon began to circle, fighting to ignore the steaming slits on his jacket. He had parried the third strike more by luck than skill. Both of her first attacks should have been killshots. A perfect X-mark had been cut into his jacket over his heart.

"Telling" Leon growled. He attacked cautiously, trying to spot a weakness in her swordplay. She was a master swordswoman, using the most minimal energy to catch, turn, and counter his blows. Hardly any effort involved, and she made it work like a ballerina at performance. Her thrusts held short, though one scratched the tip of his chin and sent a shock of energy coursing through his face. He almost screamed as the roiling electricity scoured the nerves controlling his throat and mouth.

"That's better" she informed him. "See, you don't even need to ask. What else can you tell me about myself?"

"That you've a bitch of a sword arm." Abandoning his knife fighting, Leon hurled one straight at her and dove after it. He thought for a moment that he had her, wrapping his arms around her waist and charging forward to drive her to the ground. Somehow she slipped through, smacking him across the backside with her saber.

"Language, Kasrkin. That's not polite."

"How the hell do you know who I am?"

Her eyes twinkled under her veil. "I know many things, Sergeant Kane."

Leon gathered his wits and cast about for a weapon. The death-razor lay within reach. He snatched it up and turned back to face her. The wolf-men had not moved through the entire battle. This woman was clearly a show-artists. She enjoyed having an audience.

"Well, you're Cadian, and you've got a handle on that saber." He tried to put the pieces together. Nothing came to mind except brief snatches of wonder. "I'd say you were Schola Progenium material. Commissar school, but discharged because of confirmed radical psychosis."

"Your words are hurtful" she said with a mock scowl. Her saber was a flash of light as it batted at his knife hand. He turned with the blow, loosening his grip enough to absorb the impact without losing his knife. Reversing the move, he threw his elbow into her face. She might have laughed if she wasn't busy slipping under his arm and popping up forehead to forehead against him. The blazing life in her violet eyes made Leon shiver, and he found himself paralyzed as two fingers jabbed him in a pressure point he hadn't known existed.

"With that kind of talk it's no wonder you're single." She back a step away and gave him a thoughtful look. Leon groaned, unable to move his arms. He sank to his knees, body no longer under his control.

"…will… ing kill you."

Again, that damned smile creased her lips. She knelt down beside him and laid a hand on the nape of his neck. Her fingers were cold and strong, soldier fingers. Her voice tickled his ear as she whispered to him.

"And how did you know I trained for the Commissariat? Are you my stalker?"

Leon's feeling returned. Exploding into motion, he twisted and grabbed the woman by the throat. A primal snarl tore itself from his lungs and he threw her bodily onto the floor. Diving after her, he slashed with the death-razor for the inky blackness of her cloak.

And she ended up on top, somehow. Leon was on his back, death-razor jammed under his chin and the violet eyes peering down at him. Her knee pressed into his side, above the kidney judging by the blinding pain. The edge of her saber rested on his jacket, over directly on the X-mark she had placed earlier. He couldn't even twitch unless she gave him permission to.

The sound of running feet came from above… north side. Leon glanced that way in dismay, seeing Doc Selene come rushing into the open with a startled expression. Her old frame heaved with every breath and her pack looked half-open. She took one look at the wolf-men and did a double take.

"Doc, run!"

She stared at him, stared at the woman straddling his body with blades aimed to kill. Leon gaped as she slowly slipped her pack back over her shoulders and stepped closer. There was no fear in her voice, only steely conviction that defied the situation. Squaring her shoulders, she addressed the woman in that no-nonsense tone he had heard many times when on the operating table.

"Get off of him this instant!"

The woman glanced from Selene to Leon. To his surprise she complied. Deactivating her saber with a pout, she slipped it back into the confines of her shadow-cloak and tossed the death-razor beside Leon's head. Selene strode right up to the woman, anger burning in her eyes like an Astartes charging a cultist mob. The woman… the frack? She shrank back from the medicae as if ashamed, perhaps even fearful. The inexplicable attitude left Leon speechless. He remained on the ground, not quite sure whether he should try his luck in standing.

"What have you to say for yourself" Selene hissed. Angry hands jerked and tugged at the laces of her pack, returning it to a closed order. The woman offered a weak shrug and gestured to Leon. He braced, expecting to see her saber flare to life.

"It was only a bit of fun."

"Fun? You could have killed him? He could have killed you?"

"He didn't stand a chance" the younger woman spat back, growing angry. "He fights like a drunken sailor."

"He fights like a Kasrkin" Selene ranted. "And he could have killed you with that blasted killer blade or with his bare hands. Is that… did you spray him with Kellenim? Are you insane? Do you have any idea what side-effects occur when applied to untrea-"

"Excuse me!"

Both women stopped and turned to Leon. He dusted himself off and picked up the death-razor, not quite brandishing it but not returning it to its sheath either. Glancing from Selene to the woman, he shook his head.

"Who the frack is this, Doc? You know her?"

"Yes" Selene answered, scowling. "Though right now I would count that a sin rather than a blessing."

"High flattery indeed from an old goat like yourself." The woman's infernal grin returned. Striding back towards him, she raised her hands and pushed back her veil. Leon expected to find a mature woman's face there, like one of those holovid action heroes or some other nonsense. What he did not expect was the unmarred and innocent face of a young woman who couldn't have been older than her twenties. Her pretty and vibrant eyes complemented a thin mouth and royal nose, cheeks dimpling with each smile she offered. There was hardness there as well, the cool aura of a killer. The innocence was a ruse. This was a dangerous woman, he reminded himself.

But why did she look like a child?

"Sira Recalior" she said, extending her hand. Leon stared at her, ignoring her peace offering. His eyes flicked to Selene and gave her that _you-have-got-to-be-shitting-me_ look. She shrugged and tilted her head to the side as if unconcerned.

"You are Sira?"

"In the flesh." Her hand snaked forward further and patted the X-mark on his jacket. "Cadian, born and bred. Though, you were wrong about the Commissar training. My path in the Schola took a different route."

"Did it now?" Leon brushed her hand away. "And what was that?"

"Officio Assassinorum, Cadian Temple, of course." She winked cheekily.

"Didn't know Cadia had its own Temple."

"That's kind of the point." Her tone carried exasperation and that smug _I-know-something-you-don't-know_ whine at the same time. "Bet you can't guess what our specialty is."

"I can guess that I don't want to know." Leon looked past to Selene. "Doc, what the hell is she doing here?"

"I can answer that!" Sira sidled past him and gained his attention again. She appeared put off by his break from addressing her.

"Okay then." Leon crossed his arms. "I'm all ears, _Sira_."

"Three guesses?"

"Now!"

She scowled and glanced back at Selene. "Doesn't have manners, just like I thought. All right, soldier- boy. I'm Verne's Interrogator."

* * *

**A/N:**

**Warporcus- I am honored to be your first favorite on this site. You're awesome.**

**Regarding an Interrogator also being an Assassin, that will be explained in the next Flostak chapter (2 chapters from now, sorry for making you wait).**


	8. Flostak- Enter the Pontifex

**Flostak**

"Let me get this straight." Adin dropped into the seat opposite him in the cab. Lord Verne had acquired two eight-seater taxis to move the team and their gear. Lord Verne, Sune, Munzi and the Cadians took one while Selene and Boudi took the Interrogator and her wolf-men. The others had held their silence as Leon led the team out of Warehouse 13's outside doors. The fact that he was battered and bleeding did not draw any attention from the guards at the vehicle depot. They pointedly ignored the wolf-men, almost as if they had seen them before.

"That tiny little piece of ass is Lord Verne's mystery Interrogator, and she's an Assassin?"

Interrogator Sira had switched into the plain clothes of a low-level merchant. They had not seen a lick of her shimmer sword or her void cloak or the dazzling speed of her swordplay. What they saw was the mild-mannered, subservient young woman who bowed excessively before Lord Verne like a serf before her master. Having seen the two different Siras, he understood their skepticism. She hardly looked dangerous enough to scratch with her nails in this civilian guise.

"And Cadia's got its own Assassin Temple" Jenkus said with a snort. His massive frame rocked back and forth in his seat. The seats were not built for men of his or Sune's sizes. "I'm calling bullshit."

"Call it what you want" Leon growled. "She kicked my ass halfway to Holy Terra and I didn't land a single blow on her. She's got the right kind of gear for it, that's for sure. Right moves too. Munzi, did you know about her?"

Munzi turned slowly towards him, deadpan. He did not miss a beat as he turned the taxi after Sira's. "I did."

"Figures" he muttered. Glancing over at Lord Verne's resident bruiser, he caught the man's attention. Sune regarded them sleepily from his relaxed pose. For a primitive barbarian whose home must have been stick huts, he was handling being crammed in a metal taxi pretty well. He looked more at home than the Kasrkin.

"Sune?"

The barbarian shook his head, a motion that set his long hair flowing about his broad shoulders. "Sune knows nothing of the Lord's Interrogator but this: she is strong."

"You can tell that just by looking at her?"

He gave a sage nod that brooked no arguments. "She would make a good fight."

High praise from a master of combat like Sune. His definition of a good fight included Space Marines, minor daemons, and whole killteams. To place Sira on that list with a single glimpse spoke volumes about the impression she had made. His men understood that. They turned back to themselves and looked at Leon expectantly. "So what about her two mutts?"

"She calls them Rex and Lex. Beastmen Lupines from Tertius Hyperion. They're her guard dogs."

"Craziest creatures I've ever seen" Adin said with a chuckle. "Those things look big enough to rip a man's arm off and beat him to death with it."

"I've heard about the Lupines" Jenkus said suddenly. "Well, picked up a rumor about them. They're a feral race, little more than big animals. Slavers train them for service and they're supposed to make the most loyal companions in the sector. Kind of like real dogs."

"This is why I love the Inquisition." Adin smiled cheerily. "You meet all kinds of interesting people."

Leon grimaced and looked up at Lord Verne. The Inquisitor had said nothing more than 'you're late' when they had arrived. He sat facing towards them, eyes hooded as if deep in thought. Lord Verne had a habit of drifting off like this sometimes during their missions. Leon held no illusions that the Inquisitor was not paying attention to their every word.

"Would have been nice to know about Sira before going down there."

He did not reply. Leon stared at him for as long as he dared, then shook his head and rested his head on the cab's wall. His jaw still ached from Sira's blade. Nerves tingled in that half-numb state that left him frustratedly working his jaw. Selene had mentioned Kellenim. What was that, some kind of nerve dampener? As he replayed the fight in his mind he held with certainty that he had not been fighting at his fittest. His reactions, while seemingly fast, had been so cripplingly slow compared to her. Had she weakened him before the fight, to prove a point? He was more worried that she had managed exactly that. Poisoning him without his noticing. That was true Assassin material. When had she done it? He hadn't felt a thing.

"Something on your mind, Leon?"

His Kasrkin were watching him. Knowing that they would not be satisfied until he gave a clear answer, but also knowing that his Inquisitor sat a few seats away and was paying entirely too close attention, he shrugged and tapped his ear. "Later, once we get to the safe house. Sira's got a pad in the Upper Hive that can fit us all. We'll set up there and wait for further orders."

"Can't wait to see what we're staying at. She must have been here for a while, scouting this place out, do you think?"

"I know our _anonymous_ source isn't so anonymous. Are you asking if she's been deep cover?"

"Could be" Jenkus commented. "Seems mighty at ease here."

"Well, if she's an Assassin that would follow. An Assassin could be at ease in the middle of an Ork camp."

"You didn't answer the question."

Leon nodded. "I think it's best we don't go searching for answers, or we might find them. She is a bit young though, so she would have had to apprentice to Lord Verne at an exceptionally youthful age to have been here deep cover. But then, Assassin training can't be very short now, can it? I'm thinking she's been here for only a little while, perhaps only a couple years, or maybe he has had her off doing other tasks while we've been gallivanting about slaughtering the fell creatures of the system."

"Ha! Gallivanting. Never thought someone would describe our work as that."

The senior Kasrkin offered a shrug. "Better that than footslogging. Or hell-jumping. Or whatever it's called when you open the Chimera to find a bunch of pissed off daemons braying for your blood."

Adin nudged Jenkus and winked. "Sounds like Chief is a little sour."

"I'm holding my judgments" Leon growled. The taxi took a sudden sharp turn that set all three soldiers reaching for their weapons. Lord Verne's eyes opened slowly, regarding the men with a stern look.

"When we arrive I want the equipment stowed first. Sira will show you where to put it, and will take Sergeant Adin on a tour of the hab to satisfy your security concerns. Kasrkin, you will come with me to inspect one of the local Junta Cartel facilities. My Interrogator has assured me that we will be able to apply leverage there. It will be a hands-off inspection. We don't want to draw untoward suspicion regarding our purpose here."

"And me, sir?" Jenkus leaned forward anxiously, eager to be given a job. He was one of the few Kasrkin inexperienced enough to actually seek the Inquisitor's attention.

"You will remain at the hab and run security checks with Sergeant Adin. Sune, you will remain as well. Selene, Sira, and Sergeant Kane will fill my escort."

"Yes sir!" Jenkus flashed a confident grin and settled back. Leon suppressed a sigh. He couldn't see how Jenkus made it through the Schola Progenium with that stupid-easy smile. The Commissariat overseers had an inhuman gift for 'blanking faces.' A lot of Schola graduates rarely smiled. This Private had enough smiles to fill a platoon. Some men were just plain odd.

"Lord Verne?" Adin caught the Inquisitor's attention. He had always been a touch ballsier around Lord Verne than Leon. As the second in command, Adin could always shift blame over to Leon. It made these kind of questions much easier for him than for Leon. "What's the Interrogator's deal? How come you've got an Assassin working under you? Isn't that, well… not supposed to happen?"

The Inquisitor eyed Adin for a long time before speaking. The atmosphere in the cab grew very chilly. Realizing that Lord Verne might be trying to cloak the cab in psy-silence, Leon choked down his power as much as he could. In the confines of the cab, it did not help much. Lord Verne had enough strength to make it happen anyway.

"It is true that the Officio Assassinorum operates in strict secrecy and views their members as uniquely valuable assets. Ordinarily, when taking a contract with the Inquisition the Assassin operates in the shadows and, sometimes, does not even contact the Inquisitor who hired it. They deploy to the world in question and carry out their mission, and then they return to their Temple. This is not always the case however. It is rare, though not unprecedented, for an Assassin to be granted long-term loan to an Inquisitor or an Inquisitorial Cabal. This occurs mostly in the most dire of cases, such as when hunting an extensive heretical network or when working towards the removal of primary campaign targets."

The Kasrkin looked at each other. They had fought plenty of powerful creatures, but nothing that resembled either of those two options. _Primary campaign targets_ meant enemy warlords, Chaos Lords, Traitor Astartes captains. Unless he was running a long-term gambit that they weren't aware of…

"Interrogator Sira came to my service through a different method" the Inquisitor told them. "Her apprenticeship is the result of a long-standing contract between her Officio Assassinorum Cadia and the Ordo Malleus. She has served ably as both Interrogator and Assassin for some time now. Assassins serve alongside Inquisitors and in doing so share information that benefits both parties. I have the use of her skills and the Cadian Temple receives current updates on any discoveries I make while pursuing the Daemon and the Heretic. When I am finished with her she will return to her Temple and our lives will go on."

"Simple as that?" Adin ventured the question knowing that it was not, indeed, that simple. The Inquisitor gave him that stone cold look that refused an answer. That in and of itself gave answer enough. The Kasrkin became silent, not wanting to ask him anything more. They remained quiet for the rest of the ride, which took a half hour to cross the city's third level traffic.

The city's bazaars were in full swing as the Month of Shadows entered its eighth day. Huge crowds swarmed the off-world merchants as they fritted away precious savings. Here and there a crowd entertainer occupied the mobs while little pickpockets scurried about relieving purses. Ecclesiarch priests shouted about repentance and salvation from their perches on rickety wooden stands, their slave-penitents holding glorious banners behind them. Squads of Justicars patrolled the squares, trying and mostly failing to corral the thieves and vagabonds that littered the crowds. Leon had never seen a city more alive and full of energy. The people were practically bursting with enthusiasm as they bought and sold and talked.

None of his Kasrkin had ever set foot in a civilian, peacetime city before. Their experiences with cities came from the battle-ready Kasrs of Cadia and war-ravaged husks. To see so many people, none of them soldiers, going about their lives as if nothing in the universe could go wrong, unsettled him. He wasn't sure whether he was glad for his first look at a peaceful city or despised them for it. Glad because Flostak City was a striking reminder of why they fought. They died on the battlefield so worlds like this wouldn't have to see the taint of the Warp or the pollution of xenos invaders. Here a loyal Imperial citizen could relish in the light of the Emperor and devote their lives to things that he could only dream about.

And that was why he felt disgust. He saw bloated nobles being paraded about on their fancy palanquins while painted slaves struggled under their weight. Tattooed thugs stood guard by their masters' stores and scared away those that they deemed unworthy of their masters' attentions. Con artists hawked false relics and miracle cures to innocent bystanders. He even thought he saw a chained human beings being brought up for auction at one point. Slavery on a civilized Imperial world. His gut reaction was to storm out there and shoot down every single one of the slavers. What kind of monster would enslave his own kind?

They passed the markets and entered the dull and comparatively lifeless working sectors. Here there was little movement on the streets. Tall granite office buildings hedged the streets like defensive walls. Those that moved about hurried about like runners on the battlefield. Their eyes remained on the pavement or straight ahead, not daring to look around for fear they would be distracted from whatever task had been laid out to them. Here and there a brightly colored café disrupted the dismal ambience with light and noise. Businessmen engaged in conversation or huddled over their meals. Servers with false-smiles and weary eyes bussed tables with mechanical efficiency. These must have been the more senior members of the different guilds. They wore jewels and fine clothing and outrageous fashions. Leon wondered how much money exchanged hands at places like this. Easily enough to supply whole regiments of Guardsmen. And much of that money would be wasted on bribing corrupt officials or cartels. Cartels like the Junta.

A glorious chapel rose up to their left. Leon peered out through the tinted window of the cab to admire the beautiful, gargantuan architecture of the Emperor's worship. Monumental pillars guarded the front way like a gate, leading into a portico and from there into the main chambers. Red-robed priests scurried about from door to door, clutching massive manuscripts or conversing in jerking motions. A pair of Sisters of Battle in russet-colored armor stood guard at the massive bronze doors to the sanctuary. Even through the muted taxi walls he could hear the faint echoes of a choir singing hymns.

How many priests lived in those walls? How many sermons had exhorted the people of Flostak and pilgrims to give to the God-Emperor's worship? How many young men decided to become soldiers in those pews? The numbers were far beyond Leon's comprehension. He decided to simply revel in the glorious building and what it represented: the Emperor's awesome power and the inspiration He gave to His workers.

"You won't see a thing like that on Cadia" Adin muttered, killing the mood. "Too garish and indefensible. How much do you want to bet that those Sisters have never seen combat before?"

"I would bet that they could put a bolt shell through your skull at two hundred meters without breaking a sweat" Jenkus retorted. "Sisters aren't people to be messing with."

Leon and Adin exchanged a puzzled look. "Sorry, what? Private Loose-Lips just said some women are off limits?"

"I'm not an idiot" he said with a scowl. "I know where I can and can't go poking about. Those women are way above my pay grade."

"Pretty sure pay has nothing to do with it." Adin closed his eyes and let his hands drift to the sealed case resting between his knees. He had disassembled the hunting rifle with loving care back on the puddlejumper. It was designed to be collapsible and had fit into the snug case with little effort. It would take him a few minutes to assemble it, but that was a price worth paying in Adin's mind. Leon knew the man was aching to test it. He wouldn't be happy until he had put a couple rounds downrange with the rifle.

"How are we doing?" Leon expected Munzi to answer, but to his surprise it was Lord Verne who spoke. The Inquisitor held up three fingers. When he spoke, he sounded utterly unlike a hardnosed, steel-veined killer of men and daemons. His voice was soft, jovial, and a touch feminine. It fit his perfumed and decorated body much better than his iron bark.

"We should be arriving within the next ten minutes."

"Right-O, Lord Verne." Adin began drumming on the case. "I like your new voice. It… suits you."

Lord Verne's glare did not waver in the slightest. "It is not too late for me to assign your cover as Sune's body slave, you insolent serf."

The reply came so naturally, with such an artist's deadpan delivery, that Leon and Jenkus burst into chuckles. Adin looked at the barbarian, who sized Adin up and grimaced in distaste.

"Oh come on, you'd love it you big hairy lunk."

"Throne I want to scrub my mind now" Jenkus muttered. "Our Inquisitor just made a joke. We're all truly fracked now."

"Pay attention" Leon snapped, ceasing both of his mens' laughter. "This is how he's going to be while we're here. Get used to it and wipe those stupid smiles off your faces. Just because he's talking different doesn't mean he's changed from the bastard that would send us to go tug a daemon's tail for shits and giggles."

They settled down. Leon looked at them for a moment before adding. "And I'm pretty sure that he wasn't joking. We're supposed to be bond-servants. Don't talk back. Don't show initiative unless he allows it. And for frack's sake don't look so blasted happy."

They adopted glum looks with just a hint of grumbling. Leon considered the option of having them all don facemasks. Not full rebreathers, or even eye-blockers. Perhaps some kind of low faceguard with a vox-modulator. It would certainly go well with the menacing aura that Lord Verne wanted them to hold. He had a certain flair for theatrics riding on their disguises. They already looked like well-groomed guard retainers. His false identity as Junior Tradesman Vernon Partridge of Gudrun allowed for a moderately impressive entourage. His hired guns wouldn't necessarily be decked out like elite operators however. They needed to not stick out, but not be written off either. Faceguards would probably be on the too-much-attention side of things.

He spent a long moment considering other additions they could make once they settled in. Lord Verne had given him a stipend to accessorize their gear, having decided on the way to the surface that they did not have enough decoration for servants of a man of his caliber. At some point he and Adin would go shopping. He shuddered inwardly at the thought. Markets were enemy territory as far as he was concerned. He couldn't stand the chaos of the crowds and the constant lying from the merchants. All he could think about in those hectic human presses was the myriad of possible ways an assassin could strike without alerting the victim. On the plus side, it would serve as a good opportunity to explore their surrounding region and make some personal opinions of the area. He wanted to get a feel for the local dialect and the idiosyncrasies' of this planet's citizens.

He couldn't wait to get out of the taxi cab.

**Cathedral of His Superior Majesty**

Pontifex Mazarin looked up at the stained glass windows around the Fourth Courtyard. Each window bore an iconic representation of a great Crusading Saints fighting the hordes of the Warp. He allowed himself a moment of silent reflection as his eyes traced the glorious armored warriors of the God-Emperor. Here the Saint Sabbat. There the Lord Macharius. Saint Jurus. Martyr Kanter. Only one figure lacked proper representation. The Lady of the Cross stood cloaked in darkness, her face painted black with a silver cross standing behind her.

The Lady of the Cross. As a non-native of Flostak, Mazarin found her to be more of a nuisance than a blessed Saint. The people worshipped her with borderline heretical fervor at best. Native priests were often chastised by their superiors for the reverence in which they held her. His posting as Pontifex Urba on the other side of the sector from his home world was a direct result of this distrust. No Flostak-born priest could ever attain the rank of Pontifex. Nor could they ever be appointed off world. The danger of the Lady of the Cross was too real a threat to permit. The precedent, made in the emotional wake of a planet nearly destroyed, had caused hundreds of years of controversy within the Ecclesiarchy. The key authorities in the decision might have been posthumously declared _hereticus extremis_ save for the planet's continued loyalty to the Golden Throne. The population at large did not know this, but the Ecclesiarchy had never lifted their vigil of Flostak. Secret Inquisitorial investigations remained strong through each of the major cities, constantly searching for signs of heresy related to the Lady of the Cross.

It had been decided by the Holy Synod itself one hundred and fifteen years after the Second Ravaging had concluded. If just one true threat emerged, Flostak would burn. Necessary precautions had been implemented during the rebuilding of the world. Failsafes buried so deeply into the systems that only those with inherited access even knew they existed stood in unrelenting vigil. As the Pontifex of the capitol, he had been made aware of the ruling, but only that. Despite his best efforts and most trusted agents he had learned nothing about the true workings of Flostak's safeguards. He didn't even know the Inquisitor tasked with observing the capitol.

In the three millennia since the troublesome Second Ravaging, the order had nearly been made only once. In the twilight years of M39 a minor uprising in the southern steppes had sent Ecclesiarch operators scrambling for the kill-switches that would unleash a million nuclear devices buried in the planet's crust. The uprising had been put down so efficiently and ruthlessly by the Planetary Defense Force that the activation order never came. Mazarin had studied that particular uprising in exhaustive detail since arriving to his appointment eighty years ago.

The Cult of the Cross. The same cult that had given the last forty Pontifex Mundi's headaches. Always put down, but always returning. Its sprouted like a weed, never in the same place, never by the same peoples. More often than not it was some group of fanciful romantics that drank too much when celebrating their native Saint. Other times, much less often but much more importantly, the Cult of the Cross was led by fanatical peasants that truly sought the mysterious prophecy of _her_ return. Like so many Pontifexes before him, Mazarin cursed the nameless legend that had spawned such a dangerous myth.

"The Third Ravaging indeed" he muttered to himself. His haggard, dry face eased into a disdaining sneer. "As if those miscreants even knew what a Saint was. _She_ was no Saint."

"Lord Pontifex?"

He blinked in surprise at the unexpected voice. Turning his aged and stooped body around, Mazarin found one of the more junior preachers of the Cathedral standing nervously at the mouth of the atrium. The young and beardless man held a dataslate in one hand, a digipen in the other. More of a scribe than a preacher, Mazarin thought sourly. He chose to not explain himself, he had no need to explain himself to such a young and subordinate member of the Ministorum. The man looked hardly older than a boy, perhaps a few years out of the Schola even.

No, Mazarin corrected himself. This whelp had not come to the Ministorum through a Schola. His body was too round, too soft, and his posture too whipped to have seen the iron hand of a Schola instructor. Probably some third child who joined the Priesthood for lack of an inheritance at home.

He stared at the young priest until the man spoke. The man spoke with shameless timidity. This must have been his first time addressing anyone more powerful than the Cathedral's Confessor.

"Father Richard humbly requests your presence in the sepulcher. A most urgent matter had arisen."

"Urgent?" Mazarin huffed. His stopping by the Cathedral of His Superior Majesty was supposed to be nothing more than the annual visitation of his parish churches. It took a very brash priest to request his time on these tiresome pilgrimages. As the Pontifex Urba he had a very busy schedule to keep, and distractions were most unwelcome. There were well over three thousand priests in the city. Surely they did not need his personal hand in whatever nonsense Father Richard had encountered.

"Please, Lord Pontifex." The man's face whitened at the scowl on Mazarin's face. Clearly, this man knew his place and was greatly ashamed at having been forced to approach so high-ranking a man as himself. Mazarin continued to stare at the young man, hoping that he would give up and retreat to report his failure. Terrified as the priest was, he remained in his place with those obnoxious pleading eyes.

Maybe this was important, he decided. The man did not want to be in this position, that much was obvious. But whatever it was he had been sent for had more sway than his fear of Mazarin's ire. In a very deliberate move, he slowly brought one hand to his ear and reactivated his earpiece. In times like this, when he could find the opportunity for a little rest and meditation in these refreshing gardens, he always turned it off, consequences be damned. At the age of two hundred and ninety he had earned the right to a few short moments of peace.

But this was not one of those moments, apparently. The instant his earpiece activated he picked out the irregularity of the Cathedral's vox communications. Communication between the guard teams had escalated dramatically, and all outgoing traffic had been blocked by a temporary void-buffer. His interest was caught as surely as a fish on the hook. This would be interesting. He found himself relishing the chance to see something new and exciting. At his age, having lived for so long, there were few things that could surprise him anymore. He had a feeling this just might.

"Well then" he grumbled, collecting his staff of office and ascending the steps. "Don't stand there with you jaw scrubbing the floor. Lead me to Father Richard."

The priest bobbed his head and guided him through the Cathedral. He had been here many times, but not once had he gone outside the proscribed tour of his annual visitation. Before a minute had passed Mazarin found himself utterly lost in the maze of catacombs underneath the main grounds. The Cathedral of His Superior Majesty was the second-largest in the city, and rivaled by only three others across the entire planet. If memory served, a whole Commandery of the Order of Fervent Heart quartered here. He did not see a hair's evidence of Sister presence however, much to his disappointment. They were a very secretive Ordo for the Adepta Sororitas. Officially designated as part of the Orders Famulous, their primary task was to support the ruling households and ensure the proper education and enforcement of Imperial Law and Worship.

In truth, they had a secondary mandate, one that he again had only passing knowledge of. The Order of the Fervent Heart were actually Witch Hunters. Specifically, they hunted the Cult of the Cross. Operating independently of the Ecclesiarchy in this regard, their Canoness appointees came directly from the Prioress Convent Prioris herself. He had met with the two successive Canonesses only eight times since his arrival. Their meetings coincided on the arrival of each new decade and usually lasted just long enough for them finish a shared bottle of wine. The Canonesses of the Fervent Heart had always struck him as absurdly prudish. He wondered if this posting was seen as punishment, the 'penalty box' to borrow a local sports term. It would certainly explain why the Canonesses always appeared to have a chainsword shoved up their bums. No humor in those old witches.

They passed what felt like the twentieth intersection before the priest stopped beside an open door. An armored Sister stood on either side of the door, their faces stern and vigilant. As one they bowed before Mazarin and allowed him to enter. The young priest did not follow, and Mazarin realized as an afterthought he had not asked the man for his name. Blasted old age.

Another Sister greeted him inside. She held a drawn bolt pistol in one hand and a lamp in the other.

"Lord Pontifex, I am Sister Celeste. I will guide you to Father Richard."

Mazarin studied the woman's face as she turned to lead him yet further into the bowels of the Cathedral of His Superior Majesty. This Sister Celeste was old, perhaps older than the Canoness even. Her lined face bored testament to many years of service, but her eyes were as bright as a novice's. She handled the bolt pistol like one familiar to combat as well. Mazarin tried to guess her rank. They were all so stiff about such things, referring to most all full-fledged Sisters as merely that instead of identifying rank. Her age marked her as some higher ranking Sister. A Celestian perhaps, or some wizened scribe that served the Canoness? He could not tell, and he found that oddly frustrating. There were so many secrets on Flostak. He hated to have found another one, simple as it was.

The sepulcher led on for perhaps a few hundred meters. On each side lay stacked coffins, indented chambers lined with crematory urns, ornate plaques. He ignored them, ignored the sweet cloying scent of decay that assault his nostrils with every breath. There was something humbling about walking through a field of the dead. It reminded him of how fragile his life could be, how fragile all of their lives were before the Golden Throne. He whispered a prayer of gratitude for the extended years of service he had been allowed.

Sister Celeste brought him to a halt at a seemingly random chamber. Light emerged from it, and voices speaking in unseemly distress. Another Sister stood guard here, armed with a flamer. Mazarin felt a touch of unease at the way her cold gaze tracked his approach. This one was ferocious, like a dog chained to a post. He could feel the coiled fury bubbling inside the woman. Not angry at him. Angry at what lay within the chamber.

"Sister Alena." Sister Celeste closed her lamp and holstered her pistol. "I relieve you your post. Return to the entrance and wait for the Canoness. She will be along shortly."

The flamer-armed Sister nodded curtly and strode off into the darkness, her only light the pilot flame on her weapon's barrel. There was something obscenely militant about her movements as she vanished down the corridor. Mazarin found himself wondering if he should be armed as well. Surely there was nothing dangerous down here. To enter the sepulcher you needed to travel through the Cathedral itself. No dangerous man could do such a thing. There were too many witnesses.

"Lord Pontifex." The Sister waited for him to enter the chamber. She turned away to stand vigil as he took hesitant steps inside.

He braced himself slightly, unsure of what he would find. Father Richard stood in the center of the chamber, hands on his hips, surrounded by no less than two Sisters and four priests. The presence of so many armed Sisters continued to alarm Mazarin, and he made a note to send for an inspection of the Cathedral to ascertain their security. Something serious had occurred, and of a kind that clearly had the Cathedral's Father rattled.

As he moved further into the chamber he could see why. A handful of hand-cranked lamps had been brought in and set up through the chamber. Three shined about to illuminate the entirety of the spacious tomb, but the rest painted the far wall with like searchlights in an air raid. A body lay against the wall, naked from the waist up. So much blood coated the man's arms and chest that there was no question as to the state of him. Dead. Slit wrists and a slit throat. His eyes remained on the body as he drew closer, noting the exquisite precision with which the wounds had been made. It was almost ritualistic in its symmetry. The slices on the wrists were exactly three centimeters across. Six across the throat. More cuts marred the man's scrawny and hairless chest. He saw symbols there, mockeries of Holy icons that set his blood boiling. Heresy!

"Father Richard" he said, in a calm and quiet voice. He did not feel so on the inside. Fury that he had not felt in ages surged through his veins as he studied the corpse. It had most certainly been a ritual murder. A cultist's death to serve some horrid and insane false god. To have it occur in the sacred burial grounds under one of the most prominent chapels on Flostak! His hands itched around his staff, wishing he had a heretic's body to burst to pieces. He had done his share of fighting heresy in his early days. Though he had not used a weapon in anger for well over one and a half centuries, his ancient mind recalled the passion that came with righteous combat.

"Lord Pontifex!" The Father appeared distressed to the point of fainting. He was sweating badly and wringing his hands together. The pitiful eyes of a helpless man gazed at Mazarin, and he found his anger dulling. Never before had he seen a man so absolutely terrified. It surprised him that the man did not start gibbering and jabbering and collapse in a heap. He could barely stand his knees were knocking together so badly. His priests were no better off, even more terrified if that could be believed. Only the Sisters remained as cool and collected. But even they had their hands clenched in fists.

"I don't know what… how this man got through… what does it mean?"

Father Richard was also not from Flostak, Mazarin remembered. He had approved his appointment, along with a dozen other offworld priests, sometime in the past year. His eyes rose to the bloody message scrawled on the wall and he realized he knew exactly what this was about. Poor Father Richard had not done his homework.

Caiaphas Mazarin, Pontifex Urba of Flostak City, approached the wall and touched one of the words with his staff. The corpse was death-blue from exposure. Dead for a day or more. His blood still dripped warm to the touch. Mazarin examined the message written in the corpse-man's lifeblood and he felt gooseflesh raise in places he hadn't known it could. Four simple words that struck such dread in his soul.

_THE TIME HAS COME_

* * *

**_A/N:  
_**

**_So I realize it has been a bit longer break since I last posted. Hopefully I will be more consistent in the future. Trying to write from an priest's perspective is taking some brainstorming and research, so I apologize in advance if it gets a little rocky. I've been reading the heck out of _Eisenhorn, Ravenor, and The Inquisition War to try and get a better grasp on the more delicate nature of Imperial culture.  
**

**_WarPorcus- I'm planning to have a lot more focus on the investigative side of Lord Verne's team in this story. This will hopefully turn into less of a running gun-battle than Last Man Standing was and have a lot more character development (fingers crossed).  
_**


	9. Hinterlight- Trust Fall

**Hinterlight**

I was still numb when Harlon dropped me off at my cell. Ravenor's words had cut so deeply that I hadn't quite remembered the conversation that came afterwards. He must have noticed my dazed state, because he sent me away before long. Harlon had escorted me back without a word. I was left alone for the rest of the day-cycle. When the night-cycle came I found myself unable to sleep.

Helped Shechem escape? How could that have been possible?

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, head bowed and eyes closed, I tried to remember. I honestly had no idea what he meant. When we were on Flostak I only encountered a few people, and those were all accounted for. Men I had killed or men I had worked alongside. Never did I give someone a ticket offworld, or even pay their way. That wasn't me. There wasn't anyone there that I would have done so for.

Then what had it been? Did Ravenor really mean I had done it, or just someone on Lord Verne's team? It was entirely possible that someone else might have unintentionally let someone slip. After all, the decision hadn't been made until after the investigation had settled. Four days' time saw a lot of ships leave the planet. If he had escaped through any of them, which was how he would have done it, Shechem's survival wasn't on us.

Selene might have. Bless her heart, but that woman was as soft as cotton when it came to others. Bleeding heart, they called it. Anyone with a good enough sob story could get to her. After all, Kairi had.

The hatch opened and I looked up. Kara stood in the entrance, her beautiful face framed by the passage lights. I stared at her blankly, trying to read her. A tentative smile fought its way across her lips as she knocked.

"Come on in."

"How are you doing, Leon?" She entered but remained by the door. Her arms hung at her sides, twitching slightly for lack of something to do. She was nervous. Being here in the room with me was different than it had been. I had a feeling I knew why.

"I'm fine." My voice carried as little emotion as I could manage. This wasn't a friendly visit. Every encounter I had from now on would be carefully planned and managed by Ravenor. Relaxing my guard would do me no favors.

"We're treating you well?"

She was grasping for something to say. I had to admit, I had not thought her one to have trouble questioning a man. My hackles rose as her eyes refused to meet mine.

"Cut the crap, Kara. Why are you here? Did Ravenor send you to distract me?"

I didn't catch her response because my own words came flooding back at me. I had used those words before. Oh bloody hell, I had used those words on Flostak. The briefest flicker of a small memory: raven hair, a terrified face, maid uniform pressed into neat creases at all the right places. She had a son, she told me.

Ravenor was right, I had played a hand in Shechem's escape. God-Emperor help me, but I had. I stared past Kara at the far wall. All of this…

"Leon?"

Kara approached my bed slowly, cautious like a hunter drawing up to a wounded animal. Her body was rigid and tense, able to spring into action at a moment's notice. One hand had slipped behind and out of sight. I was sure she clutched a knife or a handgun. Just in case.

"Frack me" I breathed. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. My hands tingled and grew moist. When I looked back at Kara she was staring as if afraid I would snap.

"Leon, what is it?"

"Nothing." I swallowed hard and wiped my hands on my pants. A blocky coldness filled my stomach and the food I had eaten threatened to come welling back up. Forcing it all down, I took several ineffectual breaths to calm myself. "Don't worry about it."

As if those words ever worked. Kara placed a hand on my forehead, her warm palm feeling blessedly dry and comforting. Professional eyes studied me and she came to some conclusion. Letting her hand fall, she stepped back.

"You have a fever."

"I'll live." I began to win against my sickly urges and slipped off the bed. Kara retreated from me, still unwilling to let me within arm's reach. Picking a handkerchief from the sink, I wiped my forehead dry and splashed some tepid water on my face. It was refreshing despite being lukewarm. "So, why are you here?"

"Harlon is being deployed to the surface for another operation. Until he returns, I am your guard."

I glanced over my shoulder and saw the troubled look that she tried to hide. "Ravenor thought this was a good idea? Having you guard me."

"Patience and Zeph went with him. Carl is busy leading the investigation of the summoning site."

"He could have sent Wystan." I grimaced. Even I didn't like that disgusting slimeball, and being an untouchable I had no excuse. He was rotten to the core.

"Gideon must think that an even worse choice" she said with a weak smile. "Besides, we don't have a problem. Do we?"

"Not on my side" I told her. I put my jacket on to emphasize the point. Standing around in a tight undershirt wouldn't exactly reinforce my statement. She seemed to relax as I covered myself. Did that mean there was still something there? Or maybe I was grasping at straws, trying too hard to find some good in this situation.

"Good." She sounded a touch distracted. "I want to apologize, Leon."

"For what?"

"For how I reacted in the cafeteria. I shouldn't have asked you that question, not in public. And I should have handled it better."

"You weren't at fault." I shrugged. "Killing two Sisters is a pretty harsh offense. I could understand you wanting to know."

"How could you though?" She crossed her arms and shifted her weight. That was why she was so nervous in here. If a man was black enough to kill a Sister, he'd be black enough to do just about anything. Or so most would think.

"Have you read the reports?"

"I have."

"Then you understand that one was in self-defense."

"Allegedly." She shook her head. "I just find it hard to believe that a Sister would have attacked you."

"And I find it hard to believe that I've been accused of heresy, but it happened." I chose to say nothing further regarding the matter. It was too dangerous. "Kara, we work for the Inquisition. They're monsters, all of them. Some are dressed up nicer than others, but the men we serve take drastic measures. Not all elements of Imperial governance condone those actions."

"You're speaking of radicalism."

"I'm speaking of a man who ordered the execution of high ranking priests, Imperial governors, and an entire world. Lord Verne played the game hard, and he played it well. He made a lot of enemies and he made us do despicable things in his name. The kind of things that leave scars, Kara. Working for him was like drinking poison. Eventually it'd get you."

She grew quiet and looked about the room. Her eyes wandered over to my pile of clothes. "Are you getting those washed?"

"Never came up yet. I figured I would wear them until they got so rancid that Ravenor would send a crewman to wash them."

Her frown told me she was not sure whether I was serious or joking.

"If someone could come by and pick them up, I would appreciate it. I'm sure that your Inquisitor would not want me wandering the ship like that."

"I will have someone sent to clean them." She sighed. "Why do you do this to yourself, Leon? Why make things harder than they already are."

"I wasn't aware that I was" I answered, only half-truthfully. "As I recall, this investigation and the charges weren't my idea."

"You know I am talking about your attitude. Treating everyone here like an enemy only hurts your case."

"They're trying me for heresy, Kara. They can't get much more hostile than that."

"Not everyone is out to get you here, Leon. You have some allies on the _Hinterlight_."

I was almost angry enough to shout at her. "What allies? The one who's in a coma? My last comrade, the one I'm not allowed to see?"

"They aren't the only ones" she said, voice little more than a whisper. I glared at her, trying to read the confusing emotions on her face. Was that real? Was she just telling me what Ravenor wanted me to hear? It was impossible to tell, I had not known her long enough to get a good feel for her character. The safest response was to assume the worst, which went right along with her accusation. That made me hesitate. I knew that I had been unashamedly brash before those that were going to judge me. That was a soldier's pride, to take a stand for his actions. Did I trust any of them? No, I did not. I could not. Working for the Inquisition made people paranoid, cautious with others. More often than not those suspicions proved life-saving.

Was I really foolish enough to trust Kara? A one night fling meant less than nothing, no matter the feelings that had survived through the past five years. She was Ravenor's servant, always had been and always would be. I knew enough of her to understand how incredibly loyal she was. She would never betray Ravenor, and anything damning I might say would be dutifully reported.

"They are the _only_ ones" I told her. The corners of her mouth fell and she took a sharp breath. "Don't waste my time trying to play the good friend here, Kara. It's not wanted and I'm not going to fall for it. If you need a direct declaration for Ravenor to file, here it is: I'm considering every single person investigating me, or working for those investigating me, to be a hostile. My life hangs in the balance, I can't afford to consider any of you as allies."

"Are you admitting yourself to be a danger to the ship?" There was a strained tension in her voice. I noted that her hand went behind her back again. I could imagine her fingers wrapped around the grip of a compact autopistol.

"I am not." I returned to the bed and sat down, letting my hands rest visible on my knees. "I respect Imperial Law and will comply with any and all legal commands. That includes actions made permissible under Inquisitorial precedence" I clarified. It was a mostly pointless clarification, but if she was going to report this, I wanted Ravenor to know exactly what I meant. I understood that he, as an Inquisitor, could toss the Law out the window and do whatever he wanted to me. By adding that line, I effectively told him I expected him to do just that, and that I was prepared for it. The Inquisition could be unforgivably brutal and thorough in their investigations. They needed to be. I had done my share of barely legal investigating. Never had I thought it would bounce back in my face, but I knew that I was ready for it. A smart man trained himself to resist the same methods he used.

Kara took me at my word. Releasing her grip on the weapon hidden behind her back, she held out a placating hand. "He will be informed. Thank you for your honesty."

There might have been a faint trace of disappointment in her voice, but I wasn't paying attention anymore. The hatch opened again and an armed Sister strode through. She had to turn herself sideways to fit her power armor through the small hatch.

"Sergeant Kane" she said with only a heavy layer of bitterness. "You are to be presented before Canoness Celeste immediately."

I glanced from the Sister to Kara. Kara was watching the woman with something halfway between awe and apprehension. Knowing that the Sister would brook no delay, I stood and gestured towards the door. The Sister's bolter tracked me across the cell and into the passageway.

"Leon."

I turned back to find Kara had followed us out. She drew close and pressed her hand against my cheek. I couldn't deny that I got shivers at her touch. Her worried frown only made the contact more electric. "When you are done, get yourself checked out by the medicae."

Not quite trusting my tongue, I merely nodded and let the Sister push me down the passage. Kara stood watching for a few moments before disappearing in the other direction. The Sister led me down a now familiar path to the interview room. I slipped in without waiting for orders and assumed my normal seat. There was a glass of water waiting for me. My first move was to pour it out on the floor. It wasn't a peace offering, I had a gut feeling that it had been laced with drugs.

The Sister entered moments after I sat down, accompanied once again by her fluttering cherub scribe. Something about her struck me as different. Her eyes had a touch more weariness in them, her perfect posture seemed forced. The woman was utterly exhausted. I noted a well-cleaned, but new, scrape on her armor. She had gone down to the surface after our talk. Canoness Celeste was a very, very driven individual.

There were no formalities to be observed at this point. Sister Celeste dove straight into the interview, speaking with too-crisp words that clearly took effort to form. I only half-listened. Her body swayed ever so slightly in the seat, a clear sign of extreme fatigue. With shock, I realized she could easily pass out at any moment. How long had she been without sleep? Suddenly my few hours of troubled dreams did not seem so bad.

"…common to put you in charge of a portion of his team?"

She was staring at me expectantly. I blinked twice and looked at her.

"I apologize, would you please repeat the question?"

Irritation bled through her face. "I said: how long has Lord Verne treated you as a senior acolyte, and is it common to put you in charge of a portion of his team?"

"It's always been that way" I answered. "As the highest ranking officer of my unit, which happened to make up the vast majority of his retinue at any given time, he treated me as the tactical officer. I ranked somewhere alongside the others, and the only time I was given special precedence came on the battlefield. Before Flostak, that is. After that, with so few of us left, I believe he elevated me in his team to a more senior position. Lord Verne wasn't much for official titles or any of that however. I simply was allowed more time with him, given more opportunity to voice my opinions, and started living less in a barracks and more with the others."

"And for running his teams?"

"Same" I answered. "When in combat we Kasrkin took the front. Sometimes we deployed alone, sometimes elements of the team were spread amongst us. After Flostak we began to operate on a more one-to-one basis. That is when our unit separation really began to break down."

"How many Kasrkin were under your command at the start of your service to Lord Verne?"

"One hundred and seven. Sixty three were fresh replacements for the casualties we took on Warsaw."

"And how many remained in service at the time of the Flostak incident?"

"Thirty." I grimaced. The Sister nodded once, her eyes drooping slightly at the motion, and looked at her notes.

"And after Flostak?"

My gut burned inside me. The grimace on my face hardened in a loathing scowl. She knew the answer. It was all there, in Lord Verne's records. The blasted woman wanted to make me say it.

"Sergeant?"

"Nine" I said, spitting out the word as if it were a poison. "Eight of my men made it out alive besides myself."

"Kasrkin are widely acknowledged to be the most elite soldiers in the Imperial Guard" she said. Looking up from her notes, she gave me a cold stare. "How is it that you lost twenty one men in an operation on an Imperial world? None of your previous operations had ever seen such casualties."

"None of our previous operations involved a corrupt _Imperial _government and a whole army's worth of assassins." I couldn't resist. I crossed my arms and glared at her. "Are you going somewhere with this?"

"The late Inquisitor, Lord Verne, has a reputation for taking heavy losses in his investigations. This was the first time that his entire team was nearly wiped out. This was also the first time you were granted autonomous authority, was it not?"

I did not reply immediately. He hadn't given met that, exactly. A long leash, sure, but not anything close to autonomy. The bastard was too wily for that. But she was right about the first part. Our whole team had almost been swept aside like a beach tree in the face of a hurricane. The Junta Cartel had been much more than he had anticipated. Lord Verne's pride had led us into that death trap, and we had paid the price for his hubris. He hadn't. Of course he hadn't. That damn man had hardly taken more than a scratch while we were slaughtered around him like grox in a butcher's field.

"It was the first time I was put in charge of a contingent of his team in a non-warzone environment."

She nodded, accepting the answer. "And since then, any team you have been put in charge of has suffered significant casualties."

"I don't understand." I frowned. "Is that a question or a statement?"

Her gaze turned icy. "Since your operation on Flostak the frequency of casualties on Lord Verne's retinue rose dramatically. The majority of those that fell occurred near or related to you."

"Are you accusing me of killing my teammates?" I felt a growl rising in my chest but forced it down.

"I am merely pointing to a fact, Sergeant Kane. A rather peculiar fact at that." She set her hands on the table. "Your teammates always seemed to find misfortune in your presence. Was that purely coincidence, or something more sinister?"

"The Inquisition is at constant war. Casualties happen. Around me, sure, because I was always placed in the thick of the fighting. What's your point?" I did not like her tone. There was something dancing around behind it, something dangerous.

"My point is that servants of the Emperor die around you, Sergeant." Her voice could have grated cheese of the rind. "Good men and women fall around you so readily that one has to wonder if they were hurried along to their doom."

"I have never killed a teammate" I snarled. Anger surged through me at the blatant accusation. Unseen viewers be damned, I would not stand and take an accusation like that. "I am a loyal servant of the God-Emperor!"

"My Sisters were loyal servants of the God-Emperor!" Her fists slammed down on the table with such force I flinched. Suddenly she was standing, her chair thrown aside to the corner. Fury shone on her face like an avenging angel. "My Sisters, that you murdered, were loyal. They were good, honest, pure beings whose blood stains your filthy heretical hands you sack of shit!"

Tears ran unabated down her cheeks. Tears of fury, not of weakness. I remained seated, half-stunned by her outburst.

"Forty nine of my Sisters burned because of you! Forty nine of the most faithful women I have ever met, dead because you botched your master's investigation. What is it that infects you, your monster? That you could let such terrible things happen and sit here with your wicked insolence pretending to be faithful? Making a mockery of the Holy Emperor and His Saints. I swear by the Golden Throne that I will show you for what you are… you despicable… disgusting…"

She was crying now, sobbing almost hysterically. I stared wide-eyed, not quite comprehending. My mind had frozen a little ways back. Forty nine? Where the hell had that number come from? Oh, Throne!

"You were stationed on Flostak" I murmured, hardly believing the words had come from my mouth. Her body swayed dangerously, so close to that point where adrenaline would give out. I could barely see her eyes through the tears and the burning red of her face. She was so old, so frail beneath her broken composure.

"You single-handedly murdered an entire Order Famulous" she said, her voice breaking.

"I'm sorry." I couldn't think of anything else to say. There wasn't anything else to say. Billions had died when Flostak burned. I regretted every single death. It had been deemed necessary, but what comfort was that? Necessary that millions of loyal, Emperor-fearing citizens perished in order to wipe out a strain of evil that perhaps included four percent of the total population. Necessary that no warning had been given to those like the Sisters, or the Guard regiments on rest from campaigning. Had we handed the Enemy a triumph greater than his own plans could have accomplished? A whole planet destroyed for the sake of an insidious cult. We had fired a nova cannon at an ork and damned countless souls in the process. What greater loss was there?

The loss of many worlds. The secrets and power held by those we hunted was too great a threat to risk a single leader's escape. What good would it have done to spend years and hundreds of thousands of men purging the planet if a single heretic fled only to start the cult on another world? The tainted were an infection in the body of the Imperium. The only surefire way to protect the body was to amputate. And so Lord Verne had amputated Flostak, cut it off and hurled it into the abyss.

"You are a damned traitor" she sniffed, her tears slowing. "And I will see you burn for it."

She looked ready to say more, but then her eyes rolled up in her head and she collapsed. Her body had run for too long without nourishment or rest. Just a slight sigh, that was all the warning I had. Springing from my chair, I caught the Sister as she toppled to the side, barely stopping her head from smashing against the table's edge. She was so frail and weak in my arms, limp as a doll. Easing her to the floor, I felt panic rising in my chest.

"Ma'am. Wake up." I snapped my fingers before her eyes. Pressing an eyelid open, I could hardly see her pupils. They were dilated to near pinpricks. Her pulse was weak. I had seen this before. A zealous fool that pushed herself over the edge because of stubbornness or pride.

The cherub buzzed angrily over my head, jabbing with its little pen. I grabbed it by its infantile neck and hurled it against the glass mirror; someone had to be on the other side. "Hey! We need a medicae in here."

No one opened the door. I cast about desperately, looking for the pict-cameras. They were all off. She had turned the cameras off before entering. Was this sanctioned? The thought sent a cold knife twisting in my guts. She hadn't known about my connection to Flostak, had she? To her this had been a simple murder trial. When Ravenor spoke of Flostak, she must have…

"Frack me" I cursed. Scooping up her head, I shifted it into my lap and felt her pulse again. Her breathing was strained. Her skin cold and clammy. "This is just my damn luck. Don't you dare let go, Ma'am. You may hate my guts, but I'll be damned before I let you slip away."

A few drops of water remained in the cup. Snatching it from the table, I brought it to her lips and forced them open. Those small beads dripped across dry skin and into her throat. Didn't think it would help much, but it was something.

Still no one came to the door. I swore and started searching her robes. How had she planned on leaving? Surely she had a key, something that I could use to open the door and get some help for her. The cherub had picked itself off the floor and was floating back towards me, baby eyes literally blazing. I stared at it for a second, not at all liking the sharp little teeth that emerged from its gaping mouth. Something that resembled a barrel had emerged from its right hand.

Son of a bitch.

It fired and I had to bend over backwards to avoid being hit. Hampered by the Sister's weight, I couldn't quite duck it and the laser burned across my arm. Shocking pain stabbed across my body and I dragged the Sister to the side. The cherub did not fire again immediately, and I could have sworn I heard a rising whine as the weapon recharged. That was my chance. I dove for it and swung with both hands, intent on clobbering it before it could line up another shot.

Needle-thin claws sprouted out of its other hand's fingers and slashed across my chest. The claws barely tore skin, but left seizure-inducing pain in their wake. I staggered to all fours, hardly able to breathe as my body convulsed and fought against itself. Pain exploded in my back and I fell to my stomach. Creeping numbness spread from that new wound, and I knew the cherub had shot me.

"This… is why… I hate… fracking cherubs!" Using the leg of the table for support, I dragged myself to my still upright chair and grasped it by the seat. The whine of the cherub's weapon rang close behind me, and I could feel a tingle on my back from its suspensor field. Lifting with all the strength I could muster, I twisted around and smashed the chair into the ghoulish creature's head. The hard metal edges crushed its skull and broke the anti-grav suspensor, shooting its mutilated body off like a rocket. The horrific, spinning, headless baby-monster careened around the room, smacking into wall after wall and spraying blood everywhere it went. It flew about the room until getting stuck in a corner, bashing itself repeatedly into the wall just under one of the pict cameras.

I collapsed on my back, fighting for air. My lungs burned like they were on fire, courtesy of shock and whatever the hell had been in that blasted monster's claws. The strange gaping sensation in my gut was from a laser, I knew that. But I was having a hard time comprehending just how to clean it up. I needed bandages. Oh hell, I need a lot more than that.

The doors remained shut. Throne blast it, I was not going to bleed to death in a stupid interrogation cell alongside a passed out Sororitas. Forcing myself to my knees, which took much more effort than it should have, I crawled over to the Canoness's body and resumed searching. She had a bolt pistol in a fine leather holster on her right hip. I yanked it free, snapping the restraining strap, and checked the magazine. There was one definite way to get someone's attention on the ship, even if the surveillance had been turned off.

My mouth slurred as I turned to the glass mirror and tried to mutter a prayer. Only half of the words came out right, the rest as little more than mumbles as the numbing sensation reaching my throat. It took me a moment to realize I had fallen over backwards. My legs weren't responding. I barely had the strength to lift my head and find the glass mirror.

"…Emp'ror, protestsss…"

The explosive report of the bolt pistol sent colors bursting in my eyes. I didn't see the round punch through the glass mirror, bury itself in one of the hundred security devices inside the observation room, and explode. I did hear the screeching sirens that went off however, and I heard the rapid pulsing explosions of fire as my nerveless finger held down the trigger. Ten bolt rounds turned the observation room into a sparking mess of burning equipment. So many alarms were wailing. My head lolled on the floor and I found myself staring at the bloody stump of a baby's body that remained stuck in its corner, making obscene squelching noises every time it rammed into the steel wall.

Someone finally opened the damned door.

* * *

**A/N: On a bit of a writing spree, so I might be able to pump out another couple chapters real quick. Also, if you like this story I would highly recommend Living to die by _Vengeful Soldier_. I just discovered that story and it is amazing.**

**philip222- Thank you for your kind words. I will consider dropping this to a "T" rating. I've always been a bit conservative with rating my 40k stories because of the violence, but I might let it rest at "T."**

**Oplindenfep- Yes, somewhere in the darkest corner of the Imperium, people are actually put on trial. :)**


	10. Flostak- Jokes All Around

**Flostak – Upper Hive**

Sira had taken a suite-sized apartment in the Industrial Sector. The structure itself belonged to an entrepreneurial minor noble who had not once even seen the building. Having leased the entire fourth floor, Sira had prepared for the arrival of upwards of twenty men under Lord Verne's command. The extra preparations resulted in plenty of space for each member. Selene took to the living room, which had already been stocked and turned into a full-on infirmary. A pre-installed little shrine to the God-Emperor had been expanded with Sira's personal icons and several prayer books. Most every room had mattresses wall-to-wall and the kitchen was well stocked for a month-long siege. Three different weapon lockers had been spread evenly through the rooms. Leon allowed himself to be impressed. She could have supplied a whole company of Guardsmen out of this suite.

In stocking the suite she had not skimped on the luxuries either though. Leon had assumed she had taken some kind of Assassin's vow of abstinence from the good life. Bread and water, hard beds, that kind of thing. Instead the suite had a small pool, high quality sofas, and some of the most decadent showers he had ever seen. The place reeked of opulence. How did she have the money to acquire all of this? Must have been that hidden wealth that Lord Verne never spoke about.

Leon stood on the balcony and looked out at the hive. To the north rose the colossal Governor's palace, a monstrosity of neo-classical architecture that clashed against the more ancient structures of the cathedrals and Departmento Administratum. Whitewashed walls reflected burning sun to blind those looking up from above. The intent was clear, to inspire fear and awe in those of the Lower Hive. Instead of peaks and arches the palace consisted of overlapping domed structures. Three layers of protective walls guarded the approaches, manned by armored cars and heavy weapons that had lain dormant since their productions hundreds of years ago. From his vantage point he studied the building and realized that it had a long front, lined by towering colored-glass windows, and two equal branching wings that ended in cylindrical towers. More lay beyond; the palace extended to the river Farei that barely brushed against Flostak City. A whole fleet of gunboats guarded the banks and the governor's private airfield. He estimated a standing guard of four thousand men were housed on the palace grounds. For a world that had not seen invasion or attack in thousands of years the governors sure seemed to be afraid of something.

With possible reason, he rationalized. The current regime was only recently installed. Eighteen years ago the current ruling family, Clan Morea, had usurped the governorship and wiped out Clan Loredan. The official reports, Leon had skimmed them, spoke of the usual sectarian feuding for control. Everything had been done in a mind-bogglingly brutal but efficient manner. Simultaneous raids against over one hundred locations by Clan militia and mercenaries annihilated every member of Clan Loredan within the blood-quota. Officials that had prepared for years to replace the slain Clan Loredan positions filled the gaps so quickly that the planet barely noticed the change. Apart from those caught up in the violence of the coup, life went on as normal. Clan banners changed, new names were spoken, and life continued.

The scale of the coup had caught Leon's attention. Clan Morea had fielded a division's worth of soldiers. No Clan had more than a tenth of those numbers in household guards. Strict limits kept the militia's down to avoid regular conflict. That Clan Morea had used mercenaries was obvious. Who those mercenaries were though, Leon had a hunch the Junta Cartel had been involved. With the rise of Clan Morea came a large influx of governmental contracts to the Junta Cartel and its subsidiaries. Lord Verne must have noticed that too, which explained his reluctance to announce his presence to the Imperial authorities. The Junta were allies of Clan Morea, Leon was sure of that.

His attention drifted further on to his left. Somewhere out there, in the vast expanse of super-tower clusters that lined the western half of Upper Hive, Junta Cartel businessmen were going about their days. He spent a long moment wondering how many of them would be dead before this investigation ended. Preferably, all those guilty. He stretched out his fingers. There would be a lot of killing to do.

"Monsieur Kane."

He turned his head. Lord Verne stood in the doorway, one hand on his hip in a rather impatient manner. Prying eyes could see them, so they were in their disguise-mode. Offering a stiff and formal bow, he gestured for Lord Verne to come up beside him. The Inquisitor did not.

"Monsieur Kane, I am ready to be going now. Madam Recalior has informed me of a very nice little glass shop nearby and I would hate to pass up the opportunity to see it."

"At your service." Leon bowed again and turned his back on the cityscape. Sira and Selene stood waiting by the door. Rex and Lex had disappeared, but Sira assured him she knew what they were up to. Two giant mutt-humans couldn't hide very easily. While the others had settled in and examined the suite for themselves, Leon had merely dumped his pack and drawn both the bullpup and the saber. Neither Lord Verne nor Sira commented on the elegant blade tapping against his thigh, but Selene smiled at the sight. He casually slung his bullpup over the shoulder and stood beside her.

"Something on your mind, Doc?"

"The sword completes your look. No one will be able to mistake you for a soldier now."

"It's grand, isn't it?" He made a show of whipping the blade out for her to inspect. "Though I doubt I will actually use it. Swords are too bloody inefficient."

Sira snorted in amusement and plucked the blade from his hand as if he had given it to her. One hand pressed delicately on the base of the blade and she brushed her thumb longingly over the power switch. "This is an exquisite blade, Monsieur Kane. How did you come by it?"

"I shot the owner in the head" he snapped, taking it back and sheathing the weapon before her wandering fingers set off the power field. "Or something like that. It's hard to keep track of them all."

"You clearly didn't best the owner in close combat" she said. "Only a professional would wield a blade of this caliber."

"And just what are you insinuating?"

She gave him a frosty look. "Exactly what it sounded like."

Leon growled in his throat. The Assassin's eyes twinkled and she patted him on the cheek.

"Now, now, don't be so sour. I won't tell the others that you fight like a mind-neutered grox."

He huffed and faced Lord Verne. "Ready to be off?"

"If you children have finished bickering." He swept grandly with his hand and they exited the suite. "Monsieur Kane, if you would drive us. I would speak with Madam Recalior in private."

They reached the underground garage and Sira pointed out the sleek hovercar under her name. Once again, the flashy display of wealth made Leon wondered how they could afford it. Either she had killed off a merchant and taken his place or Lord Verne truly had a hoard tucked away somewhere. It was a six-seater speeder with tinted windows and an overcharged engine for rapid getaways in case of trouble. Leon ran one hand along the cab as he went to open the door for his Inquisitor. The shell must have been armored underneath the simple hood.

Sira gave him simple directions before she disappeared into the cab with Lord Verne. Selene joined him in driver compartment, settling in with grace to the hard leather seat. Leon drove them out of the parking lot and onto the near-empty streets. He noted instantly that there were few cars about at all. He expected a city like this to be thriving with traffic. When he commented on the peculiar lack of transport to Selene she shrugged and ventured to guess that only the ultra-wealthy could afford vehicles. Environmental laws placed severe taxes on personal vehicles. Plenty of people owned cars, but to actually drive them tended to be financially inefficient.

With the lack of traffic Leon found their destination and pulled into an open and pict-secured lot. Neither Lord Verne nor Sira appeared interested on filling them in when they got out and started walking. Sira did have the courtesy to inform Leon that vehicle theft had an extremely low occurrence rate. It made him feel slightly safer about leaving such a vehicle without a guard. Not being used to civilian life, he didn't understand the logic in leaving a valuable piece of equipment without security.

The merchant district Sira had chosen consisted more of entrepreneurial businesses than street vendors and one-story shops. This was where a man went to negotiate cargo trading, system credentials, and bulk shipping. Here and there a particularly brave vendor tried to hawk wares to the passers-by, but their nervousness revealed that they were not legal here, nor were what they sold. Leon knew that at the first hint of Justicars they would flip shut their drawers and hightail it out of sight.

"I am beginning to sense a pattern here" Leon muttered. Lord Verne half-turned to listen. They strode side by side, with Leon maintaining a proper guise of servile obedience.

"Are you?"

"Corruption everywhere." Leon scowled at a vendor who tried to catch their eye. The man had greasy dark hair, rotten teeth, and an eye patch that barely hid the horrible scars. A miserable beggar at best. Probably carried some kind of pox too. "Corruption and rot."

"It's not so bad," he said in a voice that clearly meant he did think it was _so bad_. "I don't pay you for your thinking, Monsieur Kane. I paid for your skill with your rifle, not your mind."

Leon took the admonishment quietly. Letting his hand run along the butt of his compact, he merely nodded and shut his mouth. He only spoke once more before reaching the Junta Cartel office. A street urchin with hair a dusty coal black color was cutting a very determined path that would have taken her just past them. Leon unslung his compact and spat a vicious warning to clear the way, which the beggar did. Picking pockets was much harder when the prey were aware.

The entrance to Junta Office 5a8 consisted of an indented set of double doors and a hideaway security device in the corner. The doors opened automatically at their approach, offering only a slight buzz to warn the attendant servitors of visitors. Within moments of setting foot inside they found themselves beset at all sides by polite offers for refreshment and to take their coats. Leon glared after them, a growl rising in his throat, but Lord Verne motioned for him the stand down. Declining the offers, the Inquisitor guided them through the crowd and to the front desk.

A slim and weasel-faced secretary set aside her dataslate and looked up at them with the patient expression of someone looking for a break from the boredom of sitting all day at a desk. Her eyes swept over them and back to her dataslate, cross-referencing their faces for appointments. When she had confirmed she rose and greeted them.

"Mistress Recalior, I must apologize that Tradesman Wetten is still in his meeting. Your appointment will have to be delayed."

Sira did not reply, but turned to Lord Verne and frowned. Her voice was harsh and imperious when she spoke again. "It is not my meeting, _peasant_. Did I not say who I worked for when I made this appointment? This is Junior Tradesman Vernon Partridge! He is not the kind of man to be delayed, mind you. Travelled all the way from Gudrun to meet with Tradesman Wetten."

The secretary paled at her commanding tone. She stammered over her words and looked back at her dataslate. Sira advanced on her with practiced ease, drawing a dramatic breath for what was sure to be a spectacular ear-scalding. The Gudrunite Junior Tradesman clicked his tongue and she held her silence, jolting back as if on a leash. That simple motion terrified the secretary even further, to see such an angry woman brought to heel so easily. Perhaps it was the way Sira continued to glare at her, like a hound at the end of its leash. Or maybe it was the fact that she just noticed that Leon had a rifle slung over his shoulder. She went for the panic button.

Thankfully, the door opened just about that same time and a gaggle of well-dressed merchants strode into the lobby. Their appearance caused the secretary to hesitate. Before the poor girl could make a decision Sira pushed past her and thrust straight into the crowd. Honing in on a large and balding man in a pin-striped suit, she drew herself to full height and addressed him. The fact that she was interrupting a conversation did not slow her or bother her in the slightest.

"Tradesman Wetten?"

"…yes?" His piggy eyes widened as he looked her up and down. The fur-lined half-jacket she wore did little to hide the body-hugging summer gown she wore underneath at that range. After a despicably long leer, complete with nervous licking of his upper lip, the man returned his attention to her face and asked her name.

"Recalior" she told him, stiff with poised anger. "Your _peasant_ of a secretary just informed me that my master's meeting with you is to be delayed. I gathered the impression that she is a dull and witless creature, and that there will be, in fact, no delay?"

"No, no, of course not." The man hardly paid attention to her words. He dismissed his companions with a vacant wave and apologized for the interruption. The other merchants grumbled and muttered, and they stormed out with dark glares at Lord Verne and his accomplices. Leon gave one a snarky glare that made the man rethink a curse half-formed.

"I am so sorry for the mistake" Tradesman Wetten told Sira, who shifted her weight back in a way that drew eyes down to her toned hips. Holy Throne she had picked an eye-catching dress and knew how to work it. Leon looked away and studied the surrounding servitors. They were mostly human to appearance, with nominal cosmetic implants focused around the eyes and voice boxes. Odds were most of them had some kind of hidden weapon contained under their flowing robes. If that poor, trembling secretary had actually pushed the panic button they would have been in for a fight. The woman flinched as her master directed a few dismissive threats of later admonishment her way. She was young, perhaps only a few months into her job here to be hustled so easily. Sira had been effectively harsh, but the woman had broken like a glass jar in a grenade blast.

At the merchant's urging they followed him through the doors and into a second lobby furnished with chairs, tables, and even a small bar. A distinctly mechanical servitor stood behind the bar, waiting to take orders as necessary. The walls were painted a pale and pleasant shade of ochre and had numerous awards and prizes hung at regular intervals. Leon spotted several rather proud accomplishments marked on the wall behind the bar. Merchant snobbery, he thought with a suppressed snort.

The lobby held two occupants already when they entered. On the far side, sitting with an expressionless mask of patience, was a man in the later stages of life in a very formal and business-like suit. Bony fingers clutched a magnificent walking cane that reflected the overhead lights like black glass. The silvered knob bore the likeness of a three-headed Kai-hawk, the Junta Cartel symbol. He wore nothing out of the ordinary for a businessman. In fact, he appeared very plain and unadorned for a man that walked in these circles. Tradesman Wetten had two rings on each finger and enough bracelets and necklaces to feed a Guard Regiment for a year. This ancient old man wore no finery. His only mark of importance was the cane. Leon did not let that fool him. The man's eyes were sharp as the Kai-hawk that his Cartel venerated, drinking in the sight of their party in a bare glance. The slightest twitch of his eye was the only sign of interest before he resumed staring at the wall.

Interesting as the old man was, Leon's attention landed solidly on the second man. Standing beside his companion rather than taking one of the many seats available, his faux-relaxed posture and confident smirk warned Leon that the man was dangerous. There was a subtle bulge under his left shoulder: a weapon holster. A slim bit of stiffness in the fabric along his right pant leg told Leon he had a blade sheathed there as well. His unusually tall stature allowed him to tower over his sitting master and take in the crew with little trouble. Glassy-white eyes passed over them all with curiosity. His smirk broadened. And then his gaze met Leon's and stayed there. They stared at each other for a long minute before the old man whispered something and the tall guardian broke eye contact. Leon watched him stoop slightly to hear his master, and after a simple nod, straightened and looked at the wall.

"We can meet in here" Tradesman Wetten urged. Lord Verne told Leon and Selene to remain in the lobby while he and the Assassin strode on in. The doors closed with a firm thud and they stood by, waiting for several seconds to ensure that nothing erupted once they were cut off. Eventually Leon grew satisfied and stalked over to the seat closest to opposite the door. Plopping down with little decorum, he let out a long breath and motioned for Selene to join. The medicae shook her head and went to sit at the bar. The machine freak bartender slid over to her in a well-disguised grinding of gears on a track. Disgusted by the servitor, Leon looked away.

No sound came out of the room. He assumed that everything was soundproofed. About fifteen minutes after they entered the secretary came scurrying in and through, balancing a precarious pile of old leaf-page documents in her hands. She said nothing and knocked on the door. Three seconds later something clicked and she entered. Ten seconds later she hurried out, face flushed pink and body trembling. It would be a while before the tongue-lashing ended for her. Leon almost felt sorry for her.

As the time passed he grew more and more aware of the fact that the gangly guard was staring at him again. It was an innocent enough looking, but as the minutes dragged on the man did not look away once. Leon glanced over and shot him a nasty glare, which only made the man smile. His Kasrkin instincts started to flare as the man slowly approached, taking loping steps in a gait that could only be described as inhuman. He stopped just outside of Leon's peripheral vision and stared down at him, saying nothing.

"Got a problem, mate?"

A soft titter that served as reply should have belonged to a fawning noblewoman. The man took a single step forward and leaned down, eyes bright like a crazy. Leon took the opportunity to size the man up. He was extremely tall, perhaps over seven feet, and thin as a rail. His torso was so thin that Leon could have wrapped his arms around and grabbed his elbows. Long, gangly arms reached down to his knees and ended in elongated fingers that couldn't have been useful for anything but some obscure musical instrument. His body reeked of a fruity perfume, and his hair glistened with some designer gel that added to the putridly fresh scent the man carried. A single well-manicured finger poked into his vision.

"You are a special man" the guard said in a sing-song voice. "You are _very_ special."

"If you even think about sitting down beside me I will shove those fingers so far up your ass you'll be eating nail polish for breakfast."

Again, the man giggled… and sat down. He held out his hand as if in challenge, and Leon had to fight down the urge to draw his sidearm.

"What a temper you've got" the man said. His face had a light coat of makeup on it, highlighting just how ghost-pale his skin was. This close, he looked like an obscene death puppet. Leon's skin crawled at their proximity. "What is your name?"

Choosing not to answer, Leon stared straight ahead. He felt the man's fingers drift closer, hovering just out of touch, and the man drew very close. The man's attention felt like violation, and Leon's breathing grew stiffer as he fought to control the sickened rage that was building inside him. Selene was not paying them attention, but nursing an orange-colored jagger and studying the various plaques on the wall ahead of her. His hand closed on the butt of his pistol and he began to contemplate doing something that he knew he would regret.

"A silent one, is that it? _Special_ and _mysterious_" the man said with a little squeal of delight. "I think I like you already."

"Do you want something?" The irritation carried clear in Leon's voice, and he made no attempt to hide the very unsubtle unsnapping of his holster strap.

"Just a name" the man purred. "What does one call a handsome morsel like yourself?"

Leon exhaled sharply and drew his sidearm. Turning to face the powdered guard, he laid the weapon across his lap and slipped just a little of his restraint. The man recoiled as Leon's horrid aura made itself known. For the barest moment the giddy mask of delight slipped, but the man recovered just as quickly and patted Leon on the cheek.

"Such a _special_ man" the guard said. His master called his name then, _Castiel_. A pouting frown crossed the man's face, and he slipped out of the chair. "I hope to see you again, dear."

He darted down suddenly and placed a finger across Leon's mouth. Leon recoiled and half-drew his sidearm. But the man tsked and withdrew. "You flatter yourself too quickly. You are not my type." His eyes drew suggestively to Selene on the bar, and Leon snarled something unrepeatable at the man. That charmless smile returned, and he loped back to his master, who muttered something that quieted the man. His gaze returned to Leon however, and the Kasrkin reluctantly holstered his sidearm. A sudden chill ran down his spine, and Leon realized that he was starting to sweat.

"Frack this damn planet" he growled under his breath. He couldn't wait to leave already.

**Cathedral of His Superior Majesty**

Father Richard's personal office had not been designed to hold more than a few bodies at one time. Three of the five walls bore shelf after shelf of secular and religious commentary on holy texts, and piles of half-read and briefly sourced volumes lay scattered here and there. For all of his bluster and lack of courage before superiors and terrible things, the man was spiritual. He took his work seriously, and for that Mazarin gave him credit. He would rather have had a stuttering zealot than a bombastic faith peddler in a chapel of this importance.

The few windows gave little light, and most of the illumination came from candles on wall mounts throughout the room. It was strangely subdued for such a monumental place. But the effect worked, and it brought an air of humility and quiet to the Cathedral's head clergyman. If only the chairs had been more comfortable. Father Richard had offered his desk to Mazarin, but even it lacked any form of cushion. His tired old bones ached from the hard wood, but he did not complain. It would have been impious to do so.

Canoness Katerin was a fiery young woman, with passionate eyes and a narrow face that resembled a hunting bird. She was very young for such a position, but her faith overflowed and she had proven to be an effective leader for the Order of Fervent Heart. Under her command they had successfully purged the region of over a hundred minor cults and heresies. Now she stood in the center of the room shaking with barely controlled fury. Sacrilege had been committed on nigh the holiest ground in the city. Her blood was hot for vengeance, Mazarin saw that easily enough. Though she was clad in the simple robes of her order she projected an aura of fanatical devotion and menace. Father Richard seemed particularly effected and stood sweating beside her.

His report had been simple and damning. The dead man had the name Cretchin Finne. He had been a lay-brother in the Cathedral of His Superior Majesty, a minor convict-turned-penitent who had been denied entry into the clergy but taken on as a student of His Word. He lived with the other lay-brothers and guards in the chapel-barracks, and had not registered leave from the cathedral since entering his servitude ten years before. His Confessor had been as perplexed as everyone else by the man's death. Cretchin Finne had been regular in his prayers, his work, his confessions. He had reformed his ways nad taken to chapel service with exemplary fervor. As a penitent, his every move had been monitored, and nothing explained why he had taken it upon himself to commit such a heinous sacrilege.

And that was only half the matter. The words in the sepulcher could have been coincidence, but Mazarin doubted that. He had read the Prophecy of the Cross, as had every clergyman and Sister of appropriately high clearance. _The Time Has Come_ read straight out of the end-verse of the prophecy. But how could Cretchin Finne have known that? The only being in the entirety of the Cathedral of His Superior Majesty that had access to the Prophecy was Canoness Katerin. A lay-brother could not have even know the Prophecy existed.

That was the matter than had Mazarin's attention. This was no simple ritual suicide, he was sure of that. He understood what this was about. A preliminary autopsy conducted on site by the most trusted Sister Hospitaller identified self-mutilations and carvings consistent with past incarnations of the Cult of the Cross. The last incarnation of the damned cult had been squashed out in the early years of Mazarin's appointment. Those that had dealt with the cult were long gone, either dead or moved off-world.

Which meant that this investigation would require expertise that he did not have readily available. Names and contacts were already running through his aged mind as he recalled who to speak to. No doubt Canoness Katerin had a way to contact the various Inquisition squads in the region. They would likely have to be called in. Judge Tupreno needed to be brought in.

"Lord Pontifex, what is your decision?"

He looked first to the Canoness, and read in approval in her eyes. "The Order of Fervent Heart shall lead this investigation for the time being. Word of this must not leave the Cathedral. That being as it is, consider the Cathedral of His Superior Majesty to be under restriction. Father Richard."

"Yes, Lord Pontifex?" The man took a step forward.

"You will send Layman Finne's Confessor to The Order of Fervent Heart for examination. All those who had regular contact with Layman Finne are to be placed under watch by the Sisters as well. Canoness, do you have appropriate accommodations?"

"We will empty a storage room" she answered. "Room shall be no hindrance. We may be few, but we are ready for the task."

"I am sure you and your Sisters are" Mazarin replied. He looked back at Father Richard. "I expect that you shall receive a visit from an Inquisitor soon. Unless he displays proper authority from myself, you are to refuse his investigation. I need to be informed of every move made, no matter how trivial or unassuming it may appear to be. The last thing we need is some rogue agent of the Inquisition mucking about like a soldier in a whorehouse."

Both Father Richard and Canoness Katerin reacted at such language. Mazarin detested such vulgarities, but in this instance it rammed home his point. They bowed low and exited the room, leaving him alone to his thoughts. Mazarin took his seat and let his gaze drift across the rows of books. His feeble fingers brushed the earpiece and activated the micropulse that alerted his subordinate halfway across the city that he wanted to speak. Within moments his personal secretary's voice sprang to life.

"The Reverend of Glorious Victory is quite anxious to know where you are." His attendant's voice was light and scolding at the same time. Very few people had the nerve to speak to him so bluntly. Samael got away with it only because of the superb manner in which he handled his duties. He was a master organizer and had a good mind for the political intrigues of Flostak. When push came to shove, Samael was the most effective assistant he had ever seen. It was as if he could read Mazarin's mind sometimes.

Mazarin wasted no time diving into the heart of the conversation. Efficient as Samael was, he could talk in circles for hours. "I want you to cancel the remainder of my tour immediately. Call in my council and have them meet me in my sanctchapel five hours from now."

"Yes… sir." The vox carried only a hint of Samael's bemused smile. "Might I enquire as to what has happened?"

"You may not" Mazarin snapped. "Nor may the heads of the thirty two chapels that I have not visited yet. Make up something, anything will do, and get them off of my plate. I will be returning to Sanctuary Twilight Rose now and expect to have my orders carried out in full by the time I arrive."

His attendant confirmed the order and disconnected. Mazarin sighed heavily and looked at his timepiece. It was still late morning. He needed lunch, and about five gallons of caf. There was supposed to be an Inquisitor arriving on-planet soon. Someone by the name of Verne. His contacts in the Ordo had been rather unwilling to reveal their agent, but Mazarin kept a tight rein on what Imperial servants came and left his world. This one was supposed to be a real firebrand, the kind that could either seal this mess up nicely or turn it into a fully-fledged disaster.

The sooner he contacted the man, the better.

* * *

**A/N:**

**First of all, I must apologize for taking so long to post this chapter. I've been figuratively banging my head against a brick wall of writer's block when it comes to trying to portray the Ecclesiarchy. However, I've noticed that whenever I finally break writer's block I can knock out a couple chapters close on the heels, so I should be able to get this story rolling for a while now.**

**Second, thank you reviewers for your feedback. You're all awesome. My one request is that I get a couple reviews of what people think of Castiel. Without giving anything away, he pops up a couple more times and I want to make sure I write him well.**


	11. Flostak- To Catch a Thief

**Flostak- Upper Hive**

After leaving Junta Office 5a8 Lord Verne decided to go on a walk. The given reason was that he thought it would be good for his health, but there was more to it than that. The path Lord Verne chose guided them on a gentle and roundabout fashion towards the rear of the office structure where a large warehouse rose above the surrounding buildings like a pale-red blister. It stood five stories tall, with no windows and a flat roof to receive aerial shipments. The main entrance had a military-grade checkpoint with armed guards, floodlights, and what looked like a decommissioned armored car. Thought there were no immediately visible pict recorders or security devices, Leon scouted out the likely places as they meandered by. Lord Verne drew suspicion away by engaging Sira in a longwinded cross-examination about the people, the places, and the culture of Flostak.

In retrospect it was a very efficient way of handling a briefing. That they were visitors was not supposed to be a secret. This way their small team could get a free and detailed tour of the area without arousing suspicion. Not only did they get critical information, they got to see the locations in person and make their own assessments. Sira had been thorough in her time here. While she did not go into detail on the specifics of the warehouse, or the neighboring buildings, casual phrases like "you'd love the view from such-and-such-a-place" or "building A has stable power thanks to its location next to the generator lines" alerted Leon to where he should be paying attention.

They must have struck the casual passers-by as a garish party, with the powdered nobleman and the slim merchant, followed by a tall and stately woman in a utility suit and an armed guard. Certainly they were not any more ridiculous than the average merchant crowd. Leon was starting to run out of awe at the way the rich here painted themselves and covered their bodies in decoration and grotesquely fancy dresses. It was like watching a parade of buffoons and jesters, except these men and women behaved as if such attire was a mark of prominence. If they could only see what fools they looked like.

"Monsieur Kane, if you would please."

Lord Verne was watching him expectantly. Worried that he might have missed something, Leon started forward, but his Inquisitor made a tapping motion along his ear. The voxpiece had buzzed. Adin's voice greeted him.

"We're finishing up getting settled in here. Jenkus wants to know if the pantry is fair game."

Sira's mouth curved in a sour frown, but she nodded. "He better know how to cook and clean" she grumbled. "That kitchen is prime-stocked and I hate for my working quarters to be dirty."

Leon did not bother asking the obvious question that sprang to mind. _Working quarters_. Had she butchered someone in that kitchen, or was she truly that jealous about her culinary skills?

"We'll save you some" Adin promised. "Heads up, by the way. Miss Recalior's got some grade-alpha communications gear here. Something's got the Ecclesiarchy bussed about."

"The Ecclesiarchy?" Leon lowered his voice and looked around. There were no cathedrals or chapels in sight, but he did notice a distinct lack of Justicar presence in the area. What constituted a 'normal' police force here? Was it common for whole streets to be absent of law enforcement? If Flostak had such lax security measures, it was no wonder that a Cartel like the Junta could roam free.

Sira stole his attention away as she gradually slipped back to walk beside him. She slipped her arm in his as if he had offered to escort her across the street, batting her eyelashes demurely and leaning in to disguise her words from any prying eyes. There were enough people on the streets here, further from Junta office 5a8 and nearer the open marketplaces, to warrant caution.

"Is something the matter?"

"There always is" Leon growled. "But I doubt this has anything to do with us. Adin said your sniffers picked up some alarming communiqués among Church leaders."

"Oh?" There was no teasing in the way her eyebrows arched and her slender face pinched together. "This must be something new. Everything was quiet a day ago. What did he hear?"

"He didn't say, only that something had them…" Leon grimaced at Adin's word choice, "_bussed about_."

The Assassin nodded and patted his forearm. "We will have time to look into it, but I have found no connections between our interests and the Church. It is most likely nothing to worry about."

Leon wanted to remind her that as a lifelong soldier on a world with no clear targets he had everything to worry about, but then Lord Verne plunged ahead into the street and they had to hurry to keep up. The bazaar ahead reeked of cheap perfumes, well-cooked meats, and sweaty bodies. Within moments they were surrounded by a low-rolling thunder of hundreds of voices. People jostled this way and that with little care for those around them. Leon removed himself from Sira's arm, only so that he could keep a firm hand on both the bullpup and the saber. Sira for her part melted into the crowd without slipping off. No matter how thick the bodies pressed, she remained at his side, an easy smile on her face and a half-vacant expression mirroring those of the people around her. Even Selene appeared at ease here, though she kept a tight hand on her kit and a wary eye at waist-level for pickpockets.

"Is this your first taste of markets" Sira asked him, leaning up to make sure he could hear. Leon grunted his answer. "Wait until the end of the Shadow. This place will be so packed you will wonder how people breathe."

"It gets worse than this?"

They broke apart to go around a hunched man carrying a great pack on his back. That pack might have contained everything the man owned, and the white cross of a pilgrim painted on his face confirmed Leon's guess. For a penitent pilgrim, the man seemed to be enjoying some fine bites of Flostak cuisine. His greasy brown shirt had wine stains all around the collar. Some fracking pilgrim.

Sira directed his attention back to the man after they passed him. A shadowy raven-haired figure prowled close after the pilgrim. A little flash of metal darted out from the hunter's hand and the gluttonous pilgrim tripped and fell onto his face. Quick as a buzzard the hunter was on him, helping him up and offering an apology and a warning about the dangers of the crowd. As the girl aided his recovery with one hand she calmly broke the ties of his drawstring purse with the other. In moment the hunter had her prize and had moved on. The pilgrim was none the wiser, though a bit dazed from smacking his head on the pavement. Leon did not feel sorry for him.

"It is a cruel world we live in" she said with a sigh. "That poor, poor penitent will never see his gold drachans again."

"How did you know what was in his purse?"

Sira directed for him to look down. Leon shut his mouth and stared at her hand, held close to her waist with an open palm. Four gold coins stamped with the Flostak royal seal glittered in the sunlight before she pocketed them.

"Did you just…"

"Better we use these than some street gutter vermin" Sira sighed. She offered a sickeningly sweet smile. "Don't pity him, he is earning his reward. I'll count this towards the drinks you owe me."

"I don't owe you the time of day" Leon quipped. She smiled and pressed up against him.

"Do you know how bored I have been, here on Flostak? It'd be real nice to have a quiet sit down chat with a homeworlder."

"You've probably been there more recently than I."

"That is possible" she admitted. The frankness of her tone left him a little off-balance. She sounded very much like a homesick young girl at the moment. "But I did not mean to talk of the current state of our homeworld. We have a unique view on life, I should think. Our… upbringing makes us different than all of these." She gestured blandly at the crowd around them. "They have no idea what War is. They have never seen anything worse than a hungry stomach and scuffed knees. It would do me well to hear the stories you bring, to enjoy the familiar accent of a Bregan man."

Leon shot her a sidelong look. "How did you know my… home?"

"It's clear in your speech" she answered, as if that settled the matter. "And Bregan was my home too, a long time ago. Do you think either of us will see it again?"

"I doubt it."

Lord Verne had stopped in front of a hole-in-the-wall sort of tavern. He appeared to be studying the rickety wooden sign that read _Penitent's Noose_ as if debating whether or not it was safe to enter. Sira had previously pointed out the tavern as a safe enough place to rest and… what was the phrase? "People-watch." Some low-level and loose-tongued Junta employees frequented the place on a regular basis. Leon made sure that Selene was still with them before coming to Lord Verne's side.

"This might be just the place" Lord Verne tutted, tapping a gloved finger against his chin. He made a grand gesture for Leon. "I think we will stop here for now, Monsieur Kane. Please fetch us a table and let me know when it is ready."

Leon bowed and entered the tavern. He felt the first inklings of tension leave his veins as his eyes swept the spacious and smoky room. This was a place he had seen many times before. Bone-tired workers just off their paydays lounged around small tables covered in empty bottles and splattered playing cards. Few heads turned to inspect him as he entered, and those that did made little more than brief assessments of trouble-gauging before returning to whatever held their attention. Leon sidled in, hands clear of his weapons, and noted the two grim bouncers relax back against the walls on either side. They were tall and wiry men, brawlers to the core. One had a holdout on his hip, the other a thick truncheon. This place had decent security then. Enough to handle the midnight rabble-rousers.

This was also not the kind of place where a cheery hostess came up and offered to open a table. Leon set his sights on vacated table and moved straight for it. The former sitter had disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a pair of drained jagger shots. A tender hurried to clear the mess away as Leon dusted off the chairs and set them upright. A bit of blood clung to one of the backs. Knife fight over a game most likely. Perfect. He was already liking this place.

When he had assured himself that this place would pose them no threat, Leon voxed for Lord Verne to enter. The Inquisitor made a very good show of false-humility as he strode in, his cloak thrown over his body in a very obvious show of trying to blend in. More eyes followed his progress, but when he stopped at Leon's table the eyes scurried away. Not a spark of more than passing interest.

"Yes, I will enjoy this place" Lord Verne said, his reedy noble-voice hushed enough that only the nearest tables could hear. "To sit in and watch the peasants go about their lives. This will be quite stimulating."

"Yes, my lord, it will" Sira added. She casually leaned back in her chair and gave Leon a knowing look. "You can relax now, Monsieur Kane. We will be fine."

He snorted and set his bullpup down on the table. "This is the only place I've seen where I'd want to relax. Much better than that stuck up sitting room."

"He is sooo one track, isn't he?" Sira addressed Selene with a mischievous grin. "How do you all put up with him?"

"Because my trigger finger's the best you can afford" Leon retorted, allowing himself a little smile too. He wasn't sure if this was for the benefit of listeners, or her blowing some steam, or both. One thing he did know though, was how to play the arrogant mercenary. Throne knew he had fought enough to understand how they ticked. "Will you all be okay if I take a short walk that-a-way?"

He indicated a darker corner across the room. A squad of fatigue-clad Guardsmen were clustered around a game table manned by a sharp-eyed dealer. Lord Verne graced the table with a dismissive nod.

"Do not lose all of your money like last time, please. You grow awfully fussy when your pockets are empty."

Leon chuckled and stood up. He patted the bullpup once and looked directly at Selene. "Watch this for me, Doc?"

"Of course." The medicae frowned as she examined the game table. "Please tell me you aren't planning on gambling here."

"Course not" Leon promised. "Just gonna chat up some jarheads."

He left the table to the sound of his companions engaging in conversation. Moving with purpose across the room, he bypassed the busier tables and came up beside the Guardsmen. On closer inspection he recognized the patches on their black uniforms. Harkoni Warhawks. Some of the toughest bastards he had ever seen, excluding Cadians of course. Their unit must have been on shore leave in between deployments. The Harakoni, like Cadians, were a highly prized force and rarely saw time off the battlefield once a campaign got rolling. Always launched in the first wave, always thrown at the toughest defenses, only pulled off the field when they were dead or the enemy was.

That meant these men were enjoying their dearly earned leave. Leon excused himself into the crowd and examined the table. He had never seen it before, but it certainly had the soldiers' attentions. They were jostling and throwing money down on designated points at the table as the gamemaster spun a wheel with two balls in it. The wheel picked up speed, throwing the balls back and forth until they popped out and went rolling across the table. If the ball stopped against a pile, the pile won. If not, money went to the house. Very simple, and easy to setup. The fact that the soldiers appeared to be losing heartily did not appear to bother them.

"Fancy a roll" a fresh-faced trooper with corporal pins on his collar asked. He had a jagged scar stretching from the tip of his skull to his nose. The scar would have ruined the effect of his smile on a civilian. Leon skimmed over the wound, impressive as it was, and glanced at the table.

"I assume you're talking about the game table. I don't swing that way."

The man gave him an odd look and stared at the table. His mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, but nothing came out more than a confused humming. Another soldier with sergeant sidestepped in behind them and slapped their shoulders.

"Don't mind He-Man. He got that shiner busting it up with a Nob."

"He-Man?" Leon chuckled at the way the corporal's face lit up. "I take it that name accompanies the scar."

"Yep. Sure fits him better than Lunchbreak." The soldier extended a hand. "The name's Segert."

"Kane." Leon shook his hand and dropped a few coins on one of the squares. "What unit are you with?"

"82nd Harkoni Warhawks" the man answered proudly. "Just got over from some housecleaning around Soviea."

"Huh. They got a big green problem?"

"Not anymore they don't." Segert grinned proudly. "Kicked ork ass clear out of the system."

Leon whistled through his teeth, very much feeling impressed. Orks were terribly hard to root out once they set foot on a planet. Undoubtedly little pockets of Feral Orks had escaped notice, but defeating an ork incursion was no mean feat. "Sounds like you boys earned this break then."

"We sure as hell did." The sergeant nodded. "You prior?"

"Nah, wasn't my thing." Leon shrugged and shifted around so that he could get a better eye on the tavern. He kept a loose eye in the direction of Lord Verne's table, spotting for anyone paying them attention. But he did not let his attention waver. "Always considered it, but one thing led to another and suddenly I was out of muster age. Been a freebooting merchant guard, that's my gig."

"So you travel a lot." The sergeant did not show the usual disdain that most Guardsmen had for private security. "Seen the sector and all that slop."

"Yeah, more or less." He thought back to the many worlds they had visited. So many worlds, and every one different from the next as a sun from a moon. "How long are you all down here?"

"Until the end of these festivities, I think. The locals insisted we stick around and share the joy. That and…" He leaned in for a conspiratorial wink. "I think the governor wants our presence to keep down crime for a while. This is their holy month, and with all the Guardsmen milling about things are pretty quiet."

"Gotta love a politician" Leon said. The sergeant agreed wholeheartedly.

"With the kind of nightlife this planet has, I'm not complaining. Who're you working for?"

"A merchant" Leon replied blandly. He indicated Lord Verne across the way. The Inquisitor, Assassin, and medicae were very busy sipping at their drinks and speaking in low tones. The sergeant eyed them and nodded once. He turned back to the game table and placed a bet. Leon considered the bet and slapped a credit chit on top. The wheel rolled, the balls popped out, and both men received double their bet with grins on their faces.

"Now you're just trying to butter me up" Segert chuckled. "I thought you said you didn't swing that way."

"Don't. But I've got a hell of a lot of respect for you boys." Which was entirely true. Any sop crazy enough to grav-chute into battle was worth respecting. Drop troopers were their own breed; most were borderline psychopaths with a hearty love for the Emperor and a rugged professionalism. Those that I had fought alongside were always worth their salt in combat, and more often than not crazy enough to do the things even Cadians wouldn't touch.

He spotted a slim raven-haired figure enter the tavern to prowl. It did not take a genius to figure out which table the little pickpocket would head towards. Sighing quietly, Leon counted out his winnings and slapped them into the sergeant's surprised hand. "Here, buy your men a round on me. I'd toast your health, but I think my boss wants me back. He pays well but he's clingy."

"You're a true patriot" Segert said with a little laugh. "I'll take you up on that offer. See you around, Kane?"

"Could be." Leon gave a half-smile. He excused himself and began the casual stroll back towards Lord Verne's table. His path put him parallel and slightly behind the thief from the market, remaining just out of her vision. She seemed a little too intent on her target for a professional pickpocket, though she hid her direction rather well. Weaving in and out of the tables and slipping behind other walkers to blend in, she did a decent job appearing unnoticed. Leon made sure that the things in his pockets were secure before closing in.

The girl was quick-witted, Leon had to give her that. She scooped an abandoned serving platter up and piled on a few empty glasses as she went, smoothing out her hair and adjusting her dress just so to make her look like the other hostesses. The contact was a bit cliché: she 'tripped' and sent cups, mostly empty, spilling across the table. Sira had leapt out of her seat before the first splash of liquid could touch her fine summer gown, snatching her purse out of reach as well in a well-played act of surprise. Of course she had seen it coming; one of her hands disappeared inside her purse to grab a holdout pistol. Lord Verne might or might not have noticed her, she did come up behind him after all, but either way he kicked his chair back slowly enough to get a light helping of sudsy alcohol spilling across his lap. His outraged cry sounded too perfect to be anything but rehearsed. Selene responded sensibly and without a cry. Her first instinct was to grab the bullpup and draw it to her lap, holding it with one firm hand as the other went to scoop her drink clear of the mess.

Nimble hands snatched up the rolling cups, swiped at the expanding puddles of liquid with a rag, and darted for pockets. He had to admire her spirit, she was up against three of the tightest pockets Leon had ever met, but she came away with something that sparkled as it disappeared into her pocket. Leon caught Sira's eye, who managed to acknowledge him without lingering, and held back. The not-so-sneaky thief finished babbling her apologies and hurried off with the tray. Slipping perfectly into step, Leon waited for her to set the platter on the bar and make a beeline straight for the service entrance. She had her hand on the door when he grabbed her by her arm and shoved her through and into the alley.

"Hey!" The girl staggered forward and caught herself against the far wall. The alley they had entered was thin, muddy, and poorly lit. The height of the surrounding structures lent the passage a shadowy and dark aura, the kind where one expected armed thugs to rise from behind crates. But the pickpocket did not appear afraid. She rounded on him with an indignant expression and opened her mouth to spit out a curse, but Leon silenced her by grabbing her throat and slamming her against the wall of the other building. Her breath left her in a strangled wheeze and her eyes popped wide in their sockets.

"You're probably the shittiest thief I've ever seen" he growled, voice as low and menacing as he could manage. Not bothering to ask her permission or warn her, he stuck his hand in her pocket and produced the meager coins she had rifled from Selene. "You picked the wrong pocket, grouser."

"Go frack yourself" the girl sputtered. She gasped breathlessly for air and clawed at his face with reed-thin fingers. Her nails drew blood and he tossed her to the side. She landed in a puddle that sent mud splashing all over her face. By the time she had sucked in air he had drawn his sidearm and had it leveled at her head. The defiance did not leave her face. When it became clear that staring down a gun barrel wouldn't intimidate her, he holstered it and offered her a hand up. She ignored it and pulled herself to her own feet, wiping mud covered hands against her dirty skirt.

She was a short and slim girl, bony from malnutrition but fierce in determination. Her scrawny face with its knife-like nose and khol-lined eyes was not pretty, but it wasn't ugly either. She might have been attractive save for the grime coating her body and the unhealthy reek of sewer filth that clung to her. Probably had never taken a bath before.

"What's your name?"

"Who's asking" she snarled, wiping ineffectively at her dirty clothes.

"The man that could go throw you back in there and announce that you're a thief" Leon replied calmly. "You saw those Guardsmen in there. You know what they are? Drop troopers, crazy motherfuckers. They'd beat you to death just for the giggles."

"Is that supposed to scare me?" She glared up at him, unbothered that he stood a full head and a half taller than her. "I've been in worse scrapes than dealing with a gunslinging slimeball like you."

Leon ignored the insult and took a step forward. She held her ground for a moment, but retreated when she realized she was within arm's reach. Her arms crossed defensively. Running was not on her mind.

"Name" Leon repeated. The girl scowled and turned her head to the side. Thin fingers drummed along her arm in time to her thoughts, whatever they were.

"Quenby" she said after a long pause. The fire grew back in her eyes. "And that's all you're getting."

"That's all he needs" Sira's voice called out from behind. Leon did not turn to look; he could tell where the Assassin stood by the movement in young Quenby's eyes. The would-be-thief turned her attention to Sira and something resembling jealousy stole across the girl's face. "She was looking for these."

A gold drachan flashed through the air and landed in the mud at the girl's feet. Quenby glanced down at it for a heartbeat, body growing tense. Hesitation flickered there, the desire to snatch up the piece battling her survival instincts. No one spoke as the thief waged her internal war. At last, greed won out. She dropped to a knee and cautiously reached for the drachan, eyes remaining up to watch Leon in case he advanced.

"No, not like that." Sira extended her hand and the holdout pistol squealed. It had a very soft report, almost like a canine whimper, but the effect was very clear. The ground at Quenby's feet exploded and the girl stumbled backward with a yelp. She clutched her hands close and nursed them as if struck, eyes wide and suddenly very, very scared. Sira strode past Leon and stopped before the drachan. She made a show of ejecting the shell casing and slipping a new round in. The holdout was about the size of her palm, loaded one shell at a time. The caliber appeared quite large however, and Leon knew it had to be deadly for her to carry it.

"Pick it up" Sira ordered, her voice utterly calm and devoid of any emotion. The thief stood back, trembling slightly, sucking at the blood scratches on her hand. A sigh slipped from the Assassin's mouth and she leveled her pistol on the girl. "I said, pick it up."

The threat in her voice brooked no argument. Approaching with a wary frown, Quenby knelt down and began to reach for the coin. Her arm trembled as she moved. Sira waited for her to bend forward before rearing back and kicking the girl hard across the side of the head. The thief went sprawling against the wall, shrieking and moaning as her body crunched against a pile of garbage. Leon winced despite himself. He was a soldier, and he had a code of conduct. Abusing the girl wasn't in that code. She was a thief: lock her up or deal with her in person. But this was senseless and cruel. It was bloody inefficient too. It was not his place to speak though. Sira was his superior, and they had their roles to play.

Hers was that of a sadist, apparently, because she stormed across the alley and grabbed the sobbing girl by the hair. Mud and grime splashed against the edge of her expensive dress, ruining it and only making her angrier, by appearances. She probably did not care either way. Yanking her back across the way, Sira shoved her face in the mud beside the coin and growled down at her: "Pick it up with your teeth, you worthless gutter rat."

Quenby whimpered and fought to push herself away, but Sira had a grip on her that refused to budge. Grinding her face against the filth, the Assassin repeated her order and jammed the barrel of her holdout against the girl's head. Quenby tried for a solid five minutes to break free, but at last she gave out and inched her head forward towards the coin. Dirty tears streaked her cheeks. She had more than repented now, and Leon seriously considered stepping in. One cross look from the Assassin stopped him cold. _Not until I am done_, the gaze told him.

"Open wide" Sira growled. "I want you to get a good mouthful of that shit, and swallow it all. This is what you are, you stupid little rat. Worthless vermin that don't deserve to walk the same streets as our kind."

She sobbed and begged, but Sira did not relent. Leon turned away so that he did not have to watch. His skin crawled at Sira's behavior. He didn't mind doing this to xenos, but to another human? It was way too excessive. He slid a hand into the grip of his saber and drummed his fingers. Belatedly he realized he was drumming the same pattern that the girl had been making. Sira's voice barked out again, and the girl's sobbing became suddenly muffled as her mouth was filled with…

Frack. He refused to turn around. This was why he hated working for Verne. This pointless cruelty had no place in a soldier's life.

Sira was lecturing the girl now, speaking in very soft and condescending tones that carried just well enough for him to not make out what she was saying. He assumed it had something to do with improving her skill to not get caught. Whatever she was saying, it was interrupted within seconds by a loud retching noise. Leon turned to find Quenby down on all fours, puking her meager guts out onto the alley floor. Slime and filth dripped from her blackened teeth like oil. Her face was puffy and swollen from crying. The drachan was nowhere to be found.

"Can't even keep your dinner down" Sira said with a disapproving shave of her head. "And you interrupt me. Maybe I should teach you some manners. Monsieur Kane!"

He obediently came to her side. Sira spared him a brief glance before gesturing down to the girl, now laying on her side and breathing heavily with half-glazed eyes.

"You may begin beating her. I will tell you when to stop."

Quenby's eyes, dull as they were, widened and she raised a weak hand to protect herself. Leon glanced from the girl to the Assassin.

"I think she's had enough, ma'am."

"We don't pay you to think" Sira spat, venomous. "Don't spoil the rod, Monsieur Kane. These rats grow spoiled if you do."

"Please…" the thief wilted under Sira's intense gaze. "Please… I'm sorry. I'm only trying to ea-"

"Eat?" Sira laughed scornfully. "Was the dinner I gave you not enough? Do you want another helping?"

"Ma'am, that's enough."

"It will be enough when I say so" Sira retorted. "If you aren't man enough to do this, then I will."

Leon went to take Sira by the arm, but she stepped forward and delivered a kick to the girl's face that sent blood spraying across the alley. She kicked again and again, directing blows against Quenby's stomach and limbs. They were not particularly hard kicks, a true kick by an Assassin could snap the girl in half, but they were causing damage. Quenby squealed and shrieked until she could hardly breathe. Leon stood there, torn, growing more frustrated with each kick the Assassin made.

"That's enough!"

He didn't quite remembering stepping forward, but he found himself standing between the two with one arm on his saber and one held out to keep Sira at bay. The Assassin glared at him with a look that could have outright slain a man, but Leon returned it coldly.

"Ma'am, you've had your fun." Leon had to fight to not let their identities slip. He was furious, angry with Sira's lack of composure and this streak of hers that did not sit well with him one bit. She should have been better than this, more professional. "Now we need to leave."

Sira's glare faded and she stared hard at Leon. Confusion began to make itself known on her face. "You don't… do you realize what she is?"

"She's an idiot girl that tried to pick the wrong pocket" Leon answered automatically. "None of this was necessary."

"She's not just an idiot girl" Sira said. Her voice grew serious. "That girl is a witch."

"I wouldn't go that far…" Leon stopped. She meant that literally, not… oh frack. An unsanctioned psyker? He turned to stare at the girl. She looked quite pathetic, all curled up in a ball mewling like a kicked dog. Her breathing came ina terrible sobs. Hardly a threat to anyone. He concentrated on her then, trying to get a feel for her. Naturally he was entirely unaffected by the warp, but he had that sixth sense as an Untouchable that meant he could feel a psyker in absence. Son of a bitch, she was one.

"This little rat is an unsanctioned psyker" Sira continued. The pretense of a sadistic noblewoman had vanished. Genuine hatred and disgust read clearly on her face. "She is a danger to this city, and needs to be put out of her misery." The holdout pistol rose in her hand.

"Hold that thought." Lord Verne and Selene had entered the alley as well at some point. Advancing in smooth, effortless strides, the Inquisitor stood over Quenby's still form and looked down at her. He appraised her for a long time before ordering Leon to help her up. The thief could not stand on her own, and leaned weakly against Leon for support. Her whole body was bruised and filthy. Lord Verne's sharp eyes devoured her like a hawk spotting its prey. Leon felt the rising chill as the Inquisitor unceremoniously launched himself into the thief's mind. Quenby struggled at first, body twitching and groaning in combat, but her fighting spirit had broken and she merely clung to Leon for support. Whatever Lord Verne was looking for, he found it.

"She comes with us" he announced. "Monsieur Kane, go fetch the vehicle. Doctor, see to this young girl. My lady Sira was quite thorough and I would hate for such a promising young mind to die before we can truly examine her."

They set about for their appointed tasks. Sira continued to stand over the girl, hands balled into tight fists. It was clear that she wanted to kill the girl and be done with it. As Leon reached the entrance he saw Lord Verne approach the Interrogator and hold out his hand. Sira reluctantly handed over the drachans she had pocketed earlier. Leon's last look into the alley was that of Lord Verne dropped the coins into one of Quenby's limp hands. The thief didn't seem to notice. Her face was pale and she did not appear to be conscious anymore. Leon hoped she wouldn't die. Then again, if Lord Verne had plans for her, maybe it would be better she did.

* * *

**A/N: I apologize that I promised a quick next chapter and then nothing happened. I got a temp-job that is awesome and pays well, but it's 14ish hour work days and I'm not near a computer so I've been more or less unable to do more than check my emails every other day and finally got around to knocking this out.**

**Brother-Sergeant Rafen- thank you for your kind words. I too pray for more :)**  
**Tombawei- I noticed you said nothing about my incomplete stories. lol**  
**Tbrad123- ditto aboves, let me know if you have any question about things I need to clarify or suggestions. I am open to reviewers' requests.**  
**Kondoru- I can neither confirm nor deny said accusation. But I can promise you Castiel will be back, and even more outrageous as the story progresses.**

**As I said to Tbrad, please let me know in reviews where I do particularly well (and where I whiff something terribly). Constructive criticism is wonderful and helps me get through writer's block. Ask me questions, comment on things you think/want to happen, etc...**


	12. Hinterlight- No Good Deed

**Hinterlight**

Some men dream of waking up in a medical bed with that bright-eyed and beautiful nurse hovering over them. Some men are lucky enough to have that actually happen, though often the reality of their injuries ruined any romantic ambience to such an event. The prettiest woman in the galaxy was little comfort when you discovered you were missing your arm, or covered in burn scars. Reality is a bitch, in most cases. She is one cruel, cold, heartless bitch.

Which is why, when I came to, I was once again strapped down to a medical table with a medicae servitor hovering over the numerous consoles that decorate the enclosed room. The heavy rasping of mechanical lungs pushing stale oxygen grated against my ears. Most of my chest and back was numb, and I had the panicked realization that I could feel nothing below my waist. Was I paralyzed? Frack, that'd be the way to go. Fight my way across daemon-infested worlds, slaying thousands of the Archenemy's fiends, only to be brought down by a weapon-implanted baby monster.

Those concerns had been thrown out the window when my guard made himself known. The towering blood-red hulk of a combat-ready Exorcist Space Marine detached himself from the shadows with hardly a whisper. The pilot light on his heavy flamer danced before my eyes and informed me that paralysis was the least of my worries. He said nothing, just stared, with his weapon aimed squarely on my numbed torso. The slightest sign of falsehood and I would be reduced to an ash heap in seconds. This was no regular guard who might concern himself with hitting the expensive equipment or the servitor. This Space Marine would torch the whole room without a second's hesitation if he thought I was a threat.

With no way to move, I allowed myself to lie still and closed my eyes. They had not killed me; that was good. Perhaps I stood a chance of explaining that fiasco of an interrogation. It would be a thin stretch, and I knew there would be no sympathetic ears waiting for my side of the story. I had thought that Sister Celeste would have been a… not an ally, but an impartial judge. Now I knew that to be wrong. She wanted my blood more than Ravenor, more than anyone on this ship. Her verdict had already been made. I could not blame her.

For two days the servitor worked to heal my body. Sometimes an actual surgeon or two would enter the special room and, under the Space Marine's watchful gaze, operate on one wound or another. There were several, I learned. The cherub had shot me twice, once as a grace and once just offset from my spine. The numbness that I felt was not to be permanent, one surgeon had assured me. Nerve damage had temporarily scrambled my spinal cord, but in time I would be able to walk again. That was a small comfort; maybe I would be standing when they executed me. The third wound, and the most serious, was the long and horrific gashes the cherub's miniature lightning-claws had inflicted. All but two of my ribs had been broken and one of my lungs had collapsed. Internal hemorrhaging had flooded my stomach and intestines, requiring vat-grown replacements and extensive clean up. Between the two surgeons and the servitor, as well as the unending cocktails of drugs they were filling me with, I remained stable and even began to heal.

My Space Marine guard changed every day. They took 20 hour shifts like clockwork, alternating between three different persons. Most humans couldn't tell the difference between Space Marines, but I could. There were subtle differences in height and shape, unique markings on their armor. Whichever stood on guard always carried the same heavy flamer though. They were not just there to protect against me, I learned, but to protect me as well. The surgeons never spoke to me except in matters relating to their surgeries, and the servitor responded to everything I said with COMMAND UNRECOGNIZED, but I quickly came to understand just how precarious my situation was. Armed Sisters entered the medical bay on a fairly regular basis, their attentions always resting on the windows of my room. Fury boiled in their eyes. They were waiting, hoping to find me unguarded. Their entrances were the only respite I received from my guards' stares. When a Sister entered the medical bay my current guard would always turn his head towards them and lift the flamer so that it was clearly visible. The two armored figures would gaze at each other for a long minute, and then the Sister would turn on her heel and storm out of the bay.

Right about the time I recovered the ability to wiggle my toes I had a visitor. Inquisitor Ravenor himself came to see me, accompanied by a blonde and willowy Sister that I did not recognize. She was unarmored and unarmed, but my guard confronted her entrance anyway. A quick word with the Inquisitor salved the guard's questions, and he stood aside for them to enter. I studied the Sister as she stopped at the foot of the table. This was no elderly Canoness, but a middle-aged blonde with soft features and a hint of freckles on her nose. Her body, though hidden by her robe, was slight and not at all of a warrior's build. She was far too old to be an Initiate, but her face was bright with enthusiasm. She looked me over with a curious expression, hands clasped behind her back as she waited for the Inquisitor to speak. I turned to Ravenor and nodded.

"Long time no see" I wheezed. The surgeons had not yet been able to keep my lung inflated. As such I had to take shallow breaths and could not muster much air.

"**Do you understand the meaning of the word ****_trouble_****, Sergeant Kane?**" Ravenor's chair floated around until it was level with my head. I turned to look at him in confusion.

"What?"

"**I am curious to see what your standard for trouble is, because you are so often in it that I wonder if you no longer treat it as a serious matter.**"

"Pssh." I tried to chuckle and almost choked on my spit. A monitor started to beep crazily in warning, but the servitor silenced the alarm without missing a beat. When I recovered I shook my head. "You should… see me on a bad… day."

"**We know what happened in the interrogation cell**" he told me. I braced myself to hear an accusation. Instead, Ravenor shifted his chair towards the Sister. The blonde adopted a pensive face, as if Ravenor was speaking to her. Then she regarded me and drew a dataslate from her robe.

"It wasn't what it look like" I tried to say. The Inquisitor cut me off almost immediately.

"**When Sister Celeste disabled the recording devices she trigged a safeguard I had installed. Everything that occurred in the cell has been made known to us, Sergeant. We know that you were not responsible for what happened inside.**"

"Oh." I blinked and let my head fall back to the pillow. "Then why do the Sisters keep coming in here with loaded bolters?"

The Sister blushed slightly and looked away. Ravenor went silent for a moment, perhaps conferring with the woman. I could feel the Space Marine's gaze stabbing away at me. It occurred to me then, did the Space Marines want me dead? I hadn't seen or heard a thing to give an indication. Since the first _test_ I had not spoke to any of them. It was entirely possible that the only thing keeping this guard from roasting my body was his iron discipline. But that thought was not important right now.

"**Whether you were responsible for the altercation or not, you were found in the cell with the Canoness and her destroyed cherub. You also laid hands on a weapon sacred to the Order: ****_Emperor's Mercy_**** , the Canoness's sidearm, is a relic. They have been praying over the weapon and reconsecrating ever since they pried it out of your hands. Your intentions were admirable, Sergeant, but they have done you no favors.**"

"I gathered that much" I growled. "No good deed goes unpunished, huh? So what about you?" I nodded towards the Sister. "What are you?"

Ravenor answered for the Sister. "**Canoness Celeste has withdrawn herself from this investigation. She claims that her judgment is irreconcilably colored in this matter. Sister Mercedes is to replace her on your tribunal. Though well-read on your situation I deemed it best that she see you in person. Canoness Celeste directly appointed her to this role, and you shall find that she will be an impartial judge.**"

I mulled over his words and studied the Sister. She was watching me in silence, mouth set firmly and eyes wandering across the various wounds I had suffered. There was a clinical aspect to her gaze that told me she was comparing the in-person me to the file-based me.

"**The surgeons have informed me that you will be mobile in two days' time. From now on you shall have an Exorcist guard at all times. While I have faith in the ability of the Sisters to maintain discipline, there is a strong voice amongst them that you be handed over for immediate execution. The influence of an Order of Sisters is great, and their presence holds considerable sway among the rank and file crewmen of the Navy ships. It would not be unthinkable for some overeager ratings or sailors to take it upon themselves to end your life to gain favor in the eyes of the Church's representatives.**"

"You're worried about vigilantism?" I tried to sound surprised. His concern was a very real one. The bulk of ship crews were ignorant, superstitious people that were easily swayed by influential forces. That was one of the reasons why risk of heretical mutinies was so prevalent in the Imperial Navy. A few poorly, or well-placed depending on your point of view, words from the Sisters could spark a riot.

"**Considerable effort is being put into your trial, Sergeant Kane. I would hate to see it all wasted by a slave-rating with a rusty pipe.**"

There was just enough candor in his tone that I managed a weak laugh. "The Canoness is well, you said?"

"**She is, and privately is grateful for the initiative you showed in gaining her aid. Publicly she had denounced you and washed her hands of your fate, but she asked that I convey her thanks for taking the initiative to find her aid.**" Ravenor addressed the Sister next. "**Sister Mercedes, do you have questions for Sergeant Kane?**"

The Sister took a meek step forward and shook her head. "No, my lord, I do not."

"**Then you are dismissed.**" The Sister bowed her head and left the room. When Ravenor showed no sign of leaving I realized there was more to this conversation.

"How is the recovery going?"

"**Order has been restored to seventy percent of the planet**" the Inquisitor announced. "**All Justicar facilities have been reconquered and resistance has been reduced to scattered strongpoints in the southern hemisphere. Arbiter-General Calpurnia expects Kairn to be fully restored in twenty three days.**"

"Are all of the survivors recovered?"

"**We have found all of the Justicar survivors that are to be found**" was his answer.

"Good." I stared at the black chair in wonder. "So what happens then? Are we remaining in system until this trial is concluded or are we returning to Thracian Prime?"

The Inquisitor did not answer that. "**I have gone over the records made by Inquisitor Verne regarding his investigation on Flostak. There are several… inconsistencies that I would like to discuss with you.**"

"You phrase that so nicely" I replied. He hadn't said a single thing to me via my mind yet. I considered that for a moment, wondering if he would actually discuss things of importance in the presence of others. Well, the servitor did not count. It was more machine than man, and likely could not record or repeat what it heard. As for the Space Marine… what was the relationship between the Inquisition and the Exorcists? Were these Space Marines seconded to the Inquisition? He must have had faith in this one's ability to keep his mouth shut, because he continued speaking as if we were the only ones in the room.

"**There are two particular names that stuck out in my review of his report**" Ravenor informed me. "**According to Inquisitor Verne you were closely involved with both of them.**"

"Names?" I was in no mood to play word games.

"**The first is the Junta Cartel operative who went by the name Castiel. According to Inquisitor Verne this man gave your team quite a lot of trouble, and was responsible for the death of-**"

"That wasn't a man" I spat. Hatred welled in my veins as I thought back. "That thing was a… he was an abomination. He got off easy as far as I'm concerned."

If the Inquisitor was impressed by my outburst he did not show it. "**Regardless of your feelings, Sergeant Kane, it came to my attention that the detailed nature of Inquisitor Verne's report took a steep cut after your first encounter with Castiel. Before arriving on planet he had accumulated a wealth of knowledge regarding the Cartel, and his accounts were always so detailed. After your visit to… what was it, office 5a8, he began to show an erratic hand in his report.**"

"That was probably because we got busy. Flostak wasn't exactly a vacation for us" I snapped.

"**I understand that you suffered losses**," Ravenor said. "**And for what it is worth I am sorry. Many good men and women lost their lives**. **I know the roster you carried to and from Flostak, Sergeant. There were many holes at the end. But there was one name that was unaccounted for. There was a girl on Flostak.**"

I stared at him for a long time. I knew what he was driving at, and at the same time I realized he didn't know. With so much time spent in the Inquisition it was easy to grow comfortable with them knowing everything. Inquisitors were supposed to know every dirty secret, every little lie. But Ravenor didn't know. He was just as clueless as anyone on this ship. And I knew right then that I would confess to heresy before I told him.

"Quenby" I muttered, throat dry and thick. The word fought against me, not wanting to come out. Bile rose in my gut as I struggled to suppress the memories. There were things there that even I couldn't bear to think of.

"**Yes, Quenby was her name. Inquisitor Verne mentioned her once or twice in the reports. It seemed he had quite a fixation with the child, although he never divulged why.**"

"He was never much of an explainer" I grumbled.

"**We agree on that. As I said, I am curious about her. She must have been special to have drawn his attention.**"

"She…was."

"**So she died?**"

"Yes."

I answered a little too quickly, too insistently. Ravenor must have chalked it up to a sore spot, because he did not pursue the obvious discomfort I showed at this line of questioning. If he had pressed, if he went into my mind, he might discover it all. I thanked the God-Emperor that Ravenor did not, because the truth would have set the others right beside me on the executioner's block.

"**That is a shame. From what I heard she was quite an impressive young woman.**"

"She had a lot of promise."

"**So she did.** ** There are some fragments, loose threads that I have tied together, that point towards her involvement in the Cartel Affair. You knew this Quenby?**"

"I did."

"**And you can answer my questions about what happened to her.**"

"I could." The look on my face revealed that such information would not be delivered willingly.

"**I thought as much.**" Inquisitor Ravenor's chair retreated from the bed and turned to the door. The Space Marine guard took the chair's place without hesitation. The flamer loomed menacingly beside my chest. "**Tomorrow you will be brought before Librarian Gabriel Heridson. Rest while you can, for you will need it.**"

His words were far from encouraging. I look at my guard for some indication of what I might face, but all that I received was the dancing fire of the pilot light.

* * *

**A/N:  
WarPorcus- Yes, I am intentionally slowing this story down and trying to make it more fleshed out. This could quite possibly be a 30-something chapter story. But don't worry, the action will pick up soon.**


	13. Flostak- Three Fathers

**Shrine of Blessed Sacrifice**

Taking Quenby back to Sira's pad was out of the question. It would raise suspicion if they were seen dragging a half-conscious body into a high-end apartment. On the way to the Junta office their Assassin had pointed out a rundown little chapel called the Shrine of Blessed Sacrifice that had not held a public service in the better part of a decade. The vicar there, an elderly coot that she had affectionately described as "potted," maintained the place on his own. It was small, out of the way, and altogether the perfect place to stash a body. Or so Lord Verne said.

When they came back upon it, Leon understood why it had fallen into disuse. The Shrine of Blessed Sacrifice was no massive, awe-inspiring cathedral. It was a homely place, really, just barely three stories tall and mostly unimpressive in its architecture. There were no arches or spires to denote this building. The fanciest piece on the buildings outside was the ten-meter wooden doors that barred their entrance. Rusted bronze detailing too faded to read crawled up the doors like ivy. A simple plaque beside the entrance told them that the Shrine of Blessed Sacrifice was the first chapel built in honor of the Lady of the Cross. Sira dismissed the plaque as most likely false, though she did admit that this chapel had a history of attendance and service before the construction of the newer and grander Cathedral of His Superior Majesty had smothered it.

Lord Verne pushed through the doors without ceremony. He did not bother with the disguise in here. The Shrine of Blessed Sacrifice was as empty as a politician's promise. Empty pews stretched forward for fifty meters, with room for standing on either side. At the front of the chapel-hall stood a simple, unadorned altar with a preacher's loft on the left side. The altar caught his attention. A seven-meter stylized representation of the Golden Throne had been built into the lady chapel, as was appropriate and proper. But beside the Throne stood an equally tall representation of a hooded woman holding a rough wooden cross. The sight of such a figure elevated to equality with the God-Emperor gave him pause. He was still trying to wrap his head around just how fanatically these people venerated their Lady of the Cross.

"Vicar!"

Lord Verne approached the altar and stopped at a respectful distance. His hands flickered up in a brief salute before turning this way and that, cold eyes seeking the preacher of the Shrine. Impatience bled through his voice. Despite his insistence on taking this detour he did not appear pleased with how long it kept them from their business. Leon had a feeling that the Inquisitor was not telling him something about their schedule for the day. Well, he knew that there was a lot the Inquisitor was not telling them.

Something clattered in a side room and the Shrine's preacher came out. The preacher was a gangly fellow with a long wispy beard and wild eyes. Stumbling out of the room like a drunk out of a nighthouse, the preacher stared at them with a look bordering on confusion.

"Pilgrims" he asked, stroking his beard in a wizened manner. "No, you aren't that. You're too pretty for… well that's interesting." His gaze settled on Quenby's limp form sitting in the wheelchair.

"We have need of sheltering this child" Lord Verne said, drawing the preacher's attention with a huff. He reached deep into a pocket and produced his Inquisitorial rosette. "No questions, no trouble. Understood, priest?"

"Well, well. That's something you don't see every day." The preacher hardly batted an eye at the rosette. "You're one of them Inquisitives, right?"

"Inquisitor" Lord Verne snapped. "Do I have your cooperation?"

"Sure, sure. Though I don't expect to know what you'd want me to do with her." He cracked his knuckles and gave Lord Verne an odd look. "This isn't a hostel, you know."

"Yes, this is a decrepit shrine to a mythical figure that the Church allows you people of Flostak to worship. I assume that you know how to keep a low profile around here and that I won't have to worry about people coming snooping around?"

"Just me and His Light here" the man replied. "What do I call you then?"

"You may call me Verne. My associate, Kane, will be your primary contact. He will ensure her recovery and wellbeing while she is here."

"Uh-huh. Whatever you say." The preacher strode up to Leon and extended his hand. "You're Cadian."

"That's right." Leon hid his surprise. The preacher chuckled to himself as if sharing an inside joke.

"Thought so. All you Cadians have them girly-eyes. I'm Father Josephus. Welcome to the Shrine of Blessed Sacrifice."

"Father." Leon held in his irritation. "Where do you want me to put her?"

"I can make up a bed for her in the library. This way."

Without further ado he moved off towards the side room he had entered from. Leon looked to Lord Verne for permission before pushing the wheelchair after him. "Fracking preacher."

Selene followed him through the door, watching her new patient with a severe expression. Her initial diagnosis was that Sira had put some heavy damage into the girl. The better option would have been to send her to a medical clinic, but Lord Verne had forbidden it. That would be too high-profile and too easy to lose her. To handle this Selene had demanded two days of intensive care; Adin had already been voxed and given a list of supplies to prepare for when they returned.

"You can set her here" Josephus said. He indicated an empty corner. "You'll be paying for her food and all that, right?"

"I'd assume so." Leon pushed the chair into position and stood back while Selene did a final check on the girl. Barely conscious, the girl moaned weakly in protest as Selene pushed her head up and examined her eyes. "She's a bit of a troublemaker, so don't go letting her loose."

"You expect me to hold a girl hostage in my chapel?" He laughed out loud at that. "Son, you're a few dogs short of a pack if you think I'd do that. What's this girl done that makes her so bad?"

"You don't need to kn-"

"Bullshit." They both stared, amazed at the preacher's causal use of such language. Josephus cackled at their discomfort and pointed to the girl. "As soon as she's healthy, I'm letting her out. If you have a problem with that you can take her somewhere else."

"Father, do you understand who we are? What we work for?" Leon took a step forward. Normally his size and bulk set people on edge and made them cower. That, and his Blank aura. Father Josephus did the opposite. He took a matching step forward and poked Leon in the chest with a bony finger.

"I know that you Inquisitor types are full of yourselves. Thinking you're all high and mighty because you carry fancy badges and sneak around. This is my chapel, and those that come here are my responsibility. Now I'm not going to keep this girl bound up just so your boss can have a little kink on the-"

"Father!"

Selene's horrified cry described the situation perfectly. Deciding that it would be better to let her handle the preacher, Leon strode out of the room and nodded to Lord Verne, who had moved past the altar to examine the Golden Throne icon.

"This is a stupid idea" he grumbled. "That coot's about as crazy as a Catachan on Valhalla."

"We will not require his services for very long" Lord Verne replied. "Just until she is cleaned up and can be moved to our base of operations."

"Yeah, well good luck with that." Leon stalked over to the first pew and dropped into the seat. Sira was watching him, expression unreadable. Her beautiful summer gown was ruined now, mud splashed all along the bottom, but she did not seem to care.

"If you interrupt me again" she said, speaking in a cold voice that brooked no argument. "I will end you."

"You were beating the hell out of a little kid without voicing reason" Leon growled. "As far as I knew, there wasn't a point to it and it could have drawn attention from passersby on the street."

"It's not your place to decide what is and isn't good. It's your place to do what you are told."

"It's my place to make sure we don't get killed out here from doing stupid shit." He spared her a dismissive look. "What's your beef with psykers anyways? You looked positively furious about her."

"Unsanctioned psykers are the worst sort of criminal" she said. "You should know that."

Whether she was referencing his time in the Inquisition or the fact that the majority of uprisings on Cadia came from unsanctioned psykers, Leon didn't know. What he did know was that the little girl now sitting half-comatose in the chapel's library had not been a threat. There had been a hundred better ways to handle the situation. Many of them would have required less effort and less threat of exposure.

"Then you should have shot her in the head and been done with it" he said. The Assassin slipped down beside him and looked straight ahead.

"That would have drawn attention."

"And this won't?" Leon suppressed an angry growl. Operational security was a universal mantra. Even in a non-combat environment, he understood that more variables meant more chances of things falling apart. Would the death of a street rat in a back alley really cause a fuss? "And now I'm saddled with keeping an eye on that kid while I'm still responsible for the rest of you."

"If you do not feel up to the task, I am sure Lord Verne will relieve you of your responsibility."

He glanced back at her, anger building in his belly. One hand twitched towards a curled fist, but she tsked and shook her head.

"I'd kill you first" was all she said. Her hands were tucked inside her half-jacket. Some sort of weapon resided in there, though Jordan was sure he wouldn't discover what it was until it was too late. Fuming, he rose to his feet and stormed to the far side of the chapel. His list of reasons why he hated Flostak just kept getting longer.

"Kasrkin."

At his master's calling Leon turned and approached. Lord Verne's patience appeared stretched to the breaking point. He gestured irritably towards the chapel library.

"Sir?"

"We are leaving now. Inform Selene to finish fiddling with the child and join us. We will be going back into disguise once we leave this place. Will that be a problem?"

Leon resisted the urge to look back at the Assassin. "No, sir."

"Good." The Inquisitor's eyes flicked over his shoulder and past him. "Madam Recalior. Come here please."

She made no sound as she approached save for the faint swishing of the edge of her gown brushing across a pew. Stopping beside Leon, she gazed up at the Inquisitor and arched a delicate eyebrow. "My lord?"

"You two," He lifted a single finger and shook it in their faces, "need to finish this unruly bickering by the time we leave this chapel. It is not only shameful that two adults of your caliber cannot handle each other's idiosyncrasies, but you also jeopardize the entirety of the operation. I will not tolerate mistakes, nor petty squabbling. Fix yourselves, or I will."

"Yes sir." Leon glowered back at the man, biting back the numerous comments he wanted to make regarding the Inquisitor's choice of a henchwoman. The Assassin, he noted, showed nothing on her face. Nodding graciously, she turned and put a hand on his shoulder. He took his time looking down at her.

"No hard feelings" she murmured. Her fingers squeezed lightly in what was supposed to be a comforting manner. "When I read Lord Verne's reports I gathered that you were a bit more heartless than you truly are. I expected you to be less…"

"I'm a Cadian and a soldier" Leon said, cutting her off in a somewhat respectful manner. "And I always will be."

"Then it's settled." She allowed the ghost of a smile to cross her lips. "I'll no longer expect you to dirty your hands."

My hands are already dirty, was what he wanted to reply. Instead he bobbed his head and held out his hand. She did not shake it.

"But I will expect you to follow orders, _soldier_."

With that she spun on her heel and stalked off to the entrance of the chapel. Leon watched her for a moment before moving towards the library. This was proving to be a long day. He couldn't wait to finish this up and get back to the apartment, to a controlled environment.

After securing Quenby they left the Shrine of Blessed Sacrifice and continued on their way. Their next stop landed them in a four-storey garage. Lord Verne directed him to park on the third storey, northeast corner. Before stepping out Leon made a quick survey of the area. There were a handful of personal vehicles scattered about, but none close by and none that were occupied. His gaze swept back and forth as he opened the door and offered his hand.

More or less in character, Lord Verne stepped out and gazed around the floor. He grimaced in distaste at the dank and chalky aroma permeating the building. It was old, not in the best of condition. This particular garage stood square on the border between production factories and Guild Halls. On the one side rose eight-to-ten storey structures marked by company labels, wall-length windows, and uniform coloring. On the other stood short but long structures dirtied by the polluted smog rising from their many smokestacks. A permanent cloud of filth belched from the hundreds of factories and drifted off on the southern winds. The sun's rays turned grey and amber through the veil, leaving the district in eternal shadow. North of the districts, back in the Lower Hive, lay the slummiest districts. Called the Under Slums by most natives, the districts beneath the factories were sparsely populated. Millennia of pollution had long since rendered such regions nigh uninhabitable, but pockets of beggars and hive rats remained. Some of the noble families considered trips to the Under-Slums to be quite adventurous, and regular 'expeditions' into the plight of the suffering peasants crossed through the Justicar checkpoints bordering the districts. Those groups of petty nobles traveled in lush armored vehicles with Justicar escorts, ensuring that they could enjoy their little dalliance without having to fear actually stepping out of their cars.

"That building" Sira announced, lifting her hand just enough to point. They studied the building in question, making mental notes of the faded ochre coloring on the walls, the gravel-topped roof filled with generators and temperature control units, and the numerous loading docks and foot-traffic doors dotting the sides. What made it stand apart from the others was that the building had no smokestack. No visible pollution emerged from the building. Despite that the loading docks were full and a steady supply of vehicles entered and exited the factory. They watched it for the better part of an hour. The whole time Leon counted vehicles, individuals, security, and entrance points. He had no idea what their purpose was here. If Lord Verne was planning on entering it, he would want the Kasrkin's opinion. By the time Lord Verne spoke he had plotted a dozen different breach points and infiltration routes. Whether loud or quiet, he was confident he could get in.

"Monsieur Kane."

The slightest nod of the Inquisitor's head told Kane to approach.

"That factory is one of the highest security locations that the Junta Cartel operates on this planet. It does not look like much from the outside, but Sira's reconnaissance efforts have uncovered incredibly strong and thorough security systems inside."

He handed Leon a paper sheaf that turned out to be a satellite imaging. He did not want to know how Lord Verne had acquired it. Studying the scans, he noted that the structure itself went deep into the earth. At least a kilometer deep. A honeycomb of passages ran through the underground portion of the structure. If Leon had to guess, the Junta had some major illegal processes going there.

"We going to bust it open?"

"Not until we know what lies inside. Such a facility could have tantamount importance to our investigation." He shrugged. "Or it could have no impact. That is what we need to discover."

"How are we going to go about doing that?"

"All in good time" Lord Verne assured him, with a very non-reassuring smile. He patted Leon on the shoulder before turning back to the speeder. "Come, let us return to the apartment. You will spend the night at the Shrine of Blessed Sacrifice, Monsieur Kane. I want eyes on our friend at all times."

"Which friend are we talking about" he inquired, genuinely curious. He opened the doors for the Inquisitor and his Assassin to enter.

"Just load your pistol" Sira told him. "And be prepared to use it."

"It's always loaded" Leon grumbled.

**Greyworm**

Rej looked up from his disassembled lasgun. His Kasrkin, the ones that hadn't gone down with Sergeant Kane and the Inquisitor, had fallen into a subtle state of miasma since the departure of their commanding NCO. It had happened enough times that he did not worry anymore. Sergeant Kane was a Blank, and Blanks were naturally a little weird. Since discovering that his commander was one of those odd warp-resistant mutations, he had taken to scouring the Inquisitor's library for any scrap of information regarding Blanks. At first he had searched to discover if Sergeant Kane was a possible threat. But as he delved into the matter, he realized it was quite the opposite.

It explained why the grizzled NCO had always come through the most vicious of battles against warpspawn. His very presence weakened demons and rattled psykers. To use a crude analogy, if the warp was the calm surface of a toilet, he was the swirling vortex that sucked it all away. His presence had no doubt saved many of Rej's Karskin on numerous occasions.

But, like all things in life, there was a downside. As a result of his psychic absence, or whatever the heavily redacted condition was, he was a hard man to be around. Sergeant Kane just felt wrong. A sense of unease filtered through his men whenever the Senior Sergeant stood close by. Not that it upset the men, they were hardened professionals and they could stomach a whole lot more than a nagging sensation. But to be stuck in its presence for extended periods of time had sapped their morale. It could be compared to having a painfully bright light stuck in the corner of the barracks that never turned off. One could avoid it for only so long.

With that obnoxious aura of unease that Sergeant Kane emitted, one would think that his leaving would improve spirits a little. Like taking a deep breath after swimming underwater, the men should have had a kick start of energy. Instead they spoke in quieter tones, their movements became borderline lethargic, and they spent more time in the barracks. It was strange to say the least. He knew that it wasn't because of their fear of his command. Rej was a fair man, and he was good friends with most of the men.

Sighing quietly, he wiped his hands on the dirty cloth across his knee and began reassembling his lasgun. There were mysteries in the universe that went far beyond the mind of a simple Kasrkin sergeant. When his weapon lay complete he picked it up and gingerly replaced it in the barrack's weapon locker. There were many empty racks now. Those whose ID tags they had recovered hung from the pegs where their weapons had stood. Few of the fallen had been recoverable. Rej had seen his men butchered by orks, incinerated by demons, and torn to pieces by the endless tides of the Archenemy. And then they had joined the Inquisition.

He still wondered, in his more philosophical moments, what sort of deal it was the Sergeant Kane had made with the Inquisitor Lord Verne to put them into his service. Perhaps there hadn't even been a deal; Inquisitors had full rights to commandeer Imperial units for their use. But there was something… odd, about this detail. He had spoken to Sergeant Kane about it once, during their replenishment after Warsaw. His commander had been evasive, unwilling to talk about it. That was when Rej began to suspect that Sergeant Kane had traded favors. Lord Verne had done something for Kane, and in return the 804th Kasrkin Company was shuffled into the ranks of the Inquisition. From what he had learned in his study that meant they no longer existed. Inquisition flunkies would have gone to Cadia and wiped their unit from every record. Officially, he and his men had never been born. They did not exist, and they could never go home.

Rej desperately wanted to go home. Not permanently, not even for an extended stay. He just wanted a glimpse of his home world. He hadn't seen it since his graduation from the Schola Progenium. What would it be like now, to walk the streets as an adult? Life in the Schola had taken even that away from him. They had been tucked away deep in a mountain range, lived in isolation from their home world. He had only truly 'lived' on Cadia for his first seven years. After that he had been in training or deployed.

Sergeant Kane had denied them that slim chance of ever seeing home again. Rej expected to die in service to the Emperor. That was what they did. Kasrkin fought until they died or were so horribly maimed they could not operate in the field. He could die any moment in total contentment. That was not the problem. The problem was that half of the men were encouraged by that sliver of hope that they might see Cadia again. Sergeant Kane lied to them on a daily basis, and they went on blissfully unaware. For two years, he had kept them in the dark. If he held this truth from them, what else was he hiding?

Those questions gnawed at Rej from time to time. He often ignored his doubts, pushed them out of his mind for fear they would disrupt the carefully grown gel that held their dwindling unit together. What kind of Sergeant would he be if he led the way to a botched chain of command where men couldn't trust their leaders? There was an old proverb about such things: _Praise in Public, Confront in Private_. It was long past time he confronted Sergeant Kane. As soon as this mission was over, they would have a long talk.

For now though, as was his custom, he would go pray in the chapel. The second shift would be starting soon. Captain Drogtha had promised to leave his Kasrkin alone as long as they behaved. He had little doubt they would cause trouble with the promise of shore leave so close. That meant he did not have to remain in the barracks and be on the lookout for the usual attempts of his men to pick up one of the exhausted female crewmen for a drink and a roll.

The _Greyworm's_ chapel had one other visitor when he entered. The crew was diligent in their attending services, but outside of those the chapel was a good place for quiet meditation. Only a few crewmen came in during the off-hours, and those that did often sought peace and clarity as opposed to conversation. It was a good place to dwell on hard matters and to pray.

But as he entered, he realized that he would be unable to do either. Lieutenant-Director Eleanor Paige sat in a pew halfway back from the altar. Her silver hair, artificially colored if Rej was to guess, had been freed of its tight uniform bun and hung about her shoulders like silk strands. She had stretched out on the pew, arms out and head leaning back with a pensive look on her face. For a long moment Rej hesitated in the hatch, debating whether or not to leave. Then her head turned his way and the pensive frown turned into a smile. She waved to him, unwilling to break the blessed silence of the chapel. He couldn't walk away now.

He approached slowly, struggling to quell the churning in his stomach. He had never met a woman like the Lieutenant-Director before. The woman was so full of life that she practically burst at the seams. Those few times he had been to the bridge and seen her work she had fairly danced about her duties, always grinning and always quick on the draw. She was an expert adjutant and a wonderful person to be around.

In his whole life, Rej had never experienced the jittery feeling that he had around the Lieutenant-Director. Her presence unnerved him in a completely different way than Sergeant Kane did. When she smiled at him warmth suffused his bones. It had taken him several months to comprehend just what it was that made him so nervous around her. He was a Kasrkin, for Throne's sake. He had fought against demons and ork Warboss's and a thousand other terrors. Why had this one woman put him so off-balance? When she asked him to join her at meals, or even in the small recreational lounge that the _Greyworm's_ officers enjoyed, it had always struck him as intimidating.

It donned on him at last, and far too late. It happened right after their battle with the ork Freebooters. While Kane held the forward section of the Rogue Trader ship, he led the defense of the engines and other vital components in the _Greyworm's_ aft section. In the chaos of the counter-boarding action, in a sudden moment of divine clarity, he had realized that she was the woman he wanted. The one he could approach and become one with. She was his other half.

By the time he realized that his feelings compared to what the more conservative circles called love, she had slipped through his grasp. He had visited her the day after, anxious to see how she fared in the wake of the battle. The bridge had been hit during the chaos of the action. Word had filtered down that she had been wounded, and as soon as they had achieved full security of the ship he had hurried to find her.

Sergeant Kane had greeted him at her door, his pants hastily thrown on and a sly grin on his face.

In his defense, he hadn't known. It wasn't like he had intentionally stolen Rej's girl. But he had nonetheless. He took her away and defiled her with his Blank aura, with his secrets and lies, and with the blood of Rej's Kasrkin. And she had gone along willingly, giving herself to the man like a harlot to her customer.

Rej knew he should hate her. He hated Sergeant Kane, though he would never admit it and never let it be seen. Personal differences aside, Sergeant Kane kept his men alive in combat, and that was all that mattered. He cared about his soldiers on the field. Not as much as Rej did, but enough to justify his continuance as the commander of the rapidly shrinking 804th Kasrkin Company. But Lieutenant-Director Paige still gave him the jitters whenever he was around her. He couldn't look at her without imagining the sordid things Sergeant Kane had done to her, and that twisted in his gut like a serrated bayonet. It made him want to strangle her, to hold her and kiss her. He didn't even know anymore.

"Rej." She smiled warmly, filling his stomach with flitterbugs like she always did. Letting her hand drop from the pew's back, she patted the seat beside her. Rej sat down and looked resolutely ahead, determined to not look into those gorgeous blue eyes that made his hands tremble. "How are you doing?"

"I am well." He crossed his arms and slouched back in the pew. This was the only place where he allowed himself to slouch. It was a place of rest, to relieve his burdens. If only his largest burden was not sitting beside him.

"Are you sure? You look a little put off."

She reached up and brushed his cheek with a fingertip. Rej flinched away, throat growing dry. He willed himself to not snarl at her.

"I'm fine. Just a lot on my mind right now."

"I hear you there." She settled back in her seat and gave a luxurious groan that curled his toes. "I'm all tuckered out from guiding us into orbit. Those Flostak administrators are utterly useless." She looked over at him. "What are you doing for third meal?"

"Not sure." He shrugged as if he didn't care. "Probably eating with my boys."

"We're having shrimp" she told him, using that subtle pleading tone that made his heart thunder against his ribs. "And I could use a companion who knows something besides ships and cards. My fellow ship officers are so dreadfully dull."

"I'm not that hungry" he replied. It was the only thing he could think to say. Lieutenant-Director Paige frowned at his reluctance. After a moment her eyes lit up and she pressed against his side, grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh, you're such a good soldier. You're worried about Kane aren't you?"

She couldn't have frozen the blood in his veins surer if she had sprouted horns and revealed demonic teeth. Rej couldn't think for a moment. He blinked slowly, struggling to think of a reply that would be appropriate.

"I worry about him" she continued, oblivious to his thoughts. "He's a good man, your commander. The galaxy has thrown everything it can at him, but he still looks after you all like you are his children."

What kind of bullshit was he telling her, Rej wondered. Kane wasn't the one that held them together. He was. Unable to speak, he merely nodded and looked on. She nudged his shoulder with her forehead and cooed quietly. "I would really like it if you could join me, Rej."

"I'll think about it" was all he could squeeze through his choked up throat. It seemed good enough for her, and she rose from the pew with her dazzling smile returned. Bending down for a moment, she planted a quick kiss on his cheek, then strode out of the chapel. His skin burned where she had touched him but he refused to touch the afflicted spot until she had disappeared out of the hatch. When he finally did, his coarse fingers brushed the faint trace of lipstick and he snarled.

"Something the matter, my son?"

He glanced up at Father Icaru, approaching from the nave, and shook his head. He dropped his hand and tucked it into a pocket, determined to not act like some helpless lovestruck fool.

"Nothing, Father. Just pondering life."

The chapel smelled different today. He looked around, analyzing the interior with clinical interest. There, the incense burners had changed. No longer did they spew ordinary flames. Blue flames, something different entirely. Father Icaru noted his interest and explained.

"This world is known for its cold-fire incense" he told the Kasrkin. "I have found that it is indeed quite pleasing and good for meditation on serious matters."

"It's different" Rej admitted. His nose wrinkled in distaste. "Nothing stays the same" he growled.

"Change is not an evil thing" Father Icaru pressed. "Our God-Emperor revels in the advancement of mankind."

"That he does." Rej inclined his head to acknowledge the point. "But damned if we have to enjoy all of it."

The priest went quiet for a minute, studying him with an intense scrutiny that made the hair rise on his arms. "You are very troubled, my son."

"I think I'm long past troubled." He sighed quietly. "May I confess to you, Father?"

The priest nodded gravely. "You may."

Rej took a deep breath before speaking. He wasn't even sure what he wanted to say. Like everyone of importance on this ship, Father Icaru had a relationship with Sergeant Kane that he couldn't quite understand. For all he knew, they were bosom buddies. Kane certainly spent a lot of time in here. If he said anything remotely incriminating, would Father Icaru turn around and report him? Was there anything he wanted to say that was worth that risk?

"Forget it." He stood up and offered an apologetic grimace. "I just need to think a little more."

"A wise man considers his way before taking a step" the priest intoned. He was not disturbed by the sudden withdrawal of request. It happened all the time. Confession was a powerful thing, and a poor confession was just as bad as a withheld one. "Return when you have your mind in order."

Because that would never happen, Rej thought bitterly. Excusing himself, he turned and headed for the hatch. As he turned to leave Father Icaru put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Whatever troubles you, remember your faith. _She will cleanse your soul_."

"She, father?" Rej gave the priest a sharp look.

"What?" The priest's face was utterly innocent. "I didn't say anything."

**Sanctuary Twilight Rose**

Compared to the monumental cathedrals and towering palaces of Flostak, Pontifex Mazarin's headquarters was considered to be irredeemably bland and lacking in grandeur. There was very little ornamentation on the outside or inside of the chapel. Simple pennants fluttered from the two buttresses that stretched from above the main doors to the four storey steeple where a single man could stand and preach to the passing crowds. Its one pilgrimic attraction came in the form of a ceiling-to-floor fresco decorating the main entryway. The artwork captured the First Ravaging of Flostak from beginning to end, from the time the Traitor Legion of the Iron Warriors descended on the world to the time they were driven away by the Imperial armies. It was a beautiful work, and on official levels it was banned from being viewed by the ordinary public, for the work showed traitorous humans fighting alongside terrible, if cartoonish, demons. Such visions could overwhelm the uneducated mind. That was the official reason why a round-the-clock guard manned the doors of the chapel.

The other reason, the real reason, was because Sanctuary Twilight Rose had been turned into the Ecclesiarchy's private operations center many centuries ago. It had been a simple chapel built soon after the First Ravaging, and like the few other buildings from that time that remained, it had a substantial underground bunker network and reinforced communications gear that would allow anyone inside to survive a nuclear strike on the city. No other institutions were allowed inside. Not the Arbites, not the planetary government, not the PDF. It was the personal retreat of the Pontifex Urba.

He nodded briefly to the Chapel Guards. They were a special cadre, handpicked by Mazarin himself from the ranks of the most pious Arbites troops. Tall and brawny, and clad in power armor of the same style that the Battle Sisters wore, the Chapel Guard were unflinchingly loyal to Mazarin alone. They lifted their boltguns in salute as he passed them by. Though not armed with the same powerful bolter weapons of the Astartes Chapters, their boltguns could shred even Arbites armor. His Chapel Guard currently stood at fifty strong. More than enough to handle the more dubious altercations that arose from time to time.

"Samael is inside" the Chapel Guard just inside the doors informed him. While the outer Guards carried boltguns, the inner ones carried flamers, shotguns, and even shock mauls. They were a most formidable force, and one that Mazarin had only sent out once during his reign as the Pontfiex Urba.

He did not bother thanking the man. Continuing through the chapel to the reinforced door in the back, Mazarin put his hand on the palm scanner and waited for the resulting clearance tone. The door slid inwards and he entered the underground portion of the chapel. Narrow passageways were the norm here, barely two meters across and three high. He passed a checkpoint at the first intersection. Cleverly disguised firing points built into the far corners were manned by a full squad of his Chapel Guard. They had enough firepower to hold off a Guard regiment in these narrow confines.

Several turns led to his office rooms. Just as the guard had said, Samael stood just inside his office, hands clasped delicately behind his back. He had taken the liberty of lighting the incense burner, though he must have just done so because the room did not yet reek of fumes. Mazarin studied his assistant with a critical eye. The slender aide had never been much for proper religious clothing. There wasn't a scrap of piousness in his flamboyantly orange robe, nor the soft green trousers that billowed in the barely existent breeze created by the air filters. His midnight hair was done up in an ostentatious bun complete with decorative pins rising from the back of his skull. Samael's preference for womanly clothes never ceased to raise his eyebrows. There were some moments where he had felt compelled to confront the man, see if there was some deviant character flaw that would render his services redundant. But his ability to process multiple tasks with exceptional speed and accuracy always overrode those questions.

"It is a beautiful day" Samael said, that ever-present smirk riding his lips. His sing-song voice no longer irritated the Pontifex. Samael had enough quirks to drive a lesser man mad.

"As if you would know" Mazarin coughed. He stormed past the grinning aide and deposited himself in the cushioned rollerchair currently against his desk. It lay on a simple track that led from the desk to the wall-spanning console in the rear of the office. He rarely moved it that far. His desk had everything he needed.

Samael's paper-white skin glistened faintly as he moved to sit at the low chair before the desk. It was a silly chair, with a low-built seat designed to give the man behind the desk a height advantage. Purely psychological, and Mazarin had seen no use for it. But he had few visitors, and so the need to change the chair had never pressed on him. Besides, even with the height disadvantage, Samael's head matched Mazarin's when they sat. He was unusually tall, and skinny too. So painfully skinny Mazarin jokingly threatened to forcefeed him steak from time to time. His aide, of course, nodded politely at such talk.

"On the contrary" Samael began, assuming his seat before Mazarin could off it. "I examined the weather forecast while you were in transit. Our wonderful city will have clear skies for the next three days."

The Pontifex regarded his aide in disappointment. "Surely you have learned to never trust the weather forecasters."

Samael shrugged, his grin broadening for a moment. "It never hurts to have faith."

Ignoring the fact that such a statement would be considered heretical by a humorless Confessor, Mazarin began to sift through the stack of reports on his desk. He skimmed them with well-practiced eyes, categorizing them into Answer, Delegate, and Discard. Those that he would answer would have to wait as it was. They had more important matters to discuss.

"Did you receive the pict-package?"

"I did." His aide bobbed his head. "The ladies at the cathedral sent it over minutes ago. I have not examined the contents yet, but I did detect a hasty encryption protocol that, if I am correct, indicates they tried to cut some of the footage but did not have time."

Mazarin raised a single eyebrow, the silent command to continue. Samael gave a dramatic sigh and crossed his hands over his lap.

"By the time we finish speaking my console should have cracked their encryptions. Those ladies are woefully incompetent in matters of deceit and subterfuge."

And you aren't, Mazarin thought. In addition to his nominal duties as an aide, Samael was single-handedly responsible for Mazarin's information gathering and counter-intelligence work. His state-of-the-art cryptographic machines could crack anything on the planet, especially the Inquisition reports. He kept a very close eye on Flostak's Ordo members. Which reminded him, he needed to make contact with this Inquisitor Verne.

"Any news on our new friend?"

"Mister Questions?" Samael's smile did not waver. "I believe he has landed, but I am not currently privy to his whereabouts."

"Then _get privy_" Mazarin growled. "I want to know what he is doing in my city. If he is tied to this… mess, I want him controlled."

"And what mess is that, exactly?"

Samael's question came with such a perfectly innocent face that Mazarin knew he was fully aware of what had happened in the undercroft. Somehow he had caught a snippet of vox traffic, or maybe he had indeed watched the pict package the Order of Fervent Heart had sent on ahead of Mazarin's return. It did not matter either way.

"The Cult of the Cross might be resurging" Mazarin explained. His hands curled into fists at the very thought. "And they may have infiltrated the Ecclesiarchy this time."

"Such terrible news" Samael exclaimed, though his face showed no signs of alarm. "I trust that the offender was apprehended."

"His corpse was found, but the damage is done. Now we must busy ourselves in rooting out the rest of the heretics. This is a prime time for the chaos they cause. With Saint's Eve just around the corner and the populace working themselves into that religious frenzy we must handle this carefully. The slightest mistake could have disastrous effects."

"Yes, it would be a shame for the festivities to be spoiled." His aide's eyes flickered towards the Delegate pile. "Will that be all for now?"

"You have contacted my council?"

"They will be present at the appointed time" Samael said. He hesitated for a well-rehearsed second. "All of them except for Master Zerkow, that is."

"Where is the man this time?"

"He did not say" Samael lied. He really was a terrible liar. "But he did stress the importance of the task that occupied him."

"He's buggering another choirboy, isn't he?" Mazarin lowered his head and rubbed his temple in frustration. "Throne blast that man, but he will be the death of me. Send two of my Chapel Guard to fetch him. Under no circumstances are they to return empty-handed."

"It will be done at your pleasure" Samael said, bowing low as he rose from his seat. Mazarin had no doubt that Samael did indeed take pleasure at issuing such an order. He was such an odd man.

It wasn't until the door shut that Mazarin realized he hadn't actually given Samael permission to leave.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Nothing to say here. Work's been keeping me away from my computer. As I've said before, feel free to PM me or review regarding questions, comments, concerns, etc...**


End file.
